


Through the Valley

by halfwaydown



Category: Better Call Saul (TV), Breaking Bad
Genre: Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Father-Daughter Relationship, Gen, Human Trafficking, Implied/Referenced Drug Use, Implied/Referenced Rape/Non-con, Implied/Referenced Self-Harm, Murder, Original Breaking Bad Story, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Revenge, Slavery, Slow Burn, Torture, Violence
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-03-20
Updated: 2021-01-20
Packaged: 2021-02-28 19:21:30
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 29
Words: 88,446
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23222428
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/halfwaydown/pseuds/halfwaydown
Summary: In Mike’s experience, coincidences don’t exist, and it was no coincidence that she was at the drop zone, duffel bag full of cash and surrounded by the bodies of Salamanca men. Despite Lalo’s increasing scrutiny and Nacho’s pursuit of answers, Gustavo Fring tasks Mike with indoctrinating the girl into their operation. Mike’s certain that his employer knows more about the girl’s traumatic past, and the mysterious enemy searching for her. As the days drag on, Mike questions his loyalties. Maybe it’s his own paranoia, or maybe he believes the girl is his second chance, his way to right his biggest wrong. But Mike will learn that’s something he can never do.AUTHOR NOTE AT THE END OF CHAPTER 29.
Relationships: Eduardo "Lalo" Salamanca & Ignacio "Nacho" Varga, Mike Ehrmantraut & Matty Ehrmantraut, Mike Ehrmantraut & Original Characters
Comments: 163
Kudos: 59





	1. Once Upon a Time in New Mexico

**Author's Note:**

  * For [onethingconstant](https://archiveofourown.org/users/onethingconstant/gifts).



> Takes place a few months after Dedicado a Max. I started writing it before the season 5 finale, so its no longer canon compliant.  
> Spoilers for seasons 1-4 of BCS, none for BB.  
> Spanish dialogue is kept in Spanish with necessary translations provided.  
> 

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This ain't no place for no hero.
> 
> "Short Change Hero" by the Heavy

The beaches at Elephant Butte are packed. The temperature had finally subsided from being “unbearably hot” to “tolerable, at best”, allowing residents and tourists to finally leave their homes. The crowd on the shores watch as boats slide and skid across the reservoir. Little kids play in the sand, collecting rocks and bugs and chasing birds. Older, more aggressive young boys tackle and pull each other under the water in the shallows. Students from Santa Fe and Albuquerque have migrated to the waters, sunbathing and drinking in the afternoon heat. Amidst the communal chaos, a young mother sits on the shores and enjoys the yards of distance between her and her two toddlers, digging holes and making piles of the sand in front of her. She’s the first to notice the strange swarm floating in the water. 

She stands up, squinting through her sunglasses. _Leaves?_

More beachgoers start to take notice. A fourteen year old boy, having his gaze finally taken away from the college girls near him in the water, stands in awe as waves from the boats surround him with hundreds and hundreds of bills, each adorning the portrait of Benjamin Franklin. 

He grabs an eager handful just as a feeding frenzy erupts in the water. 

***

Out in the desert of New Mexico sits an abandoned gas station, existing as a spot in the distance in society’s consciousness. Off the interstate on a much older road, the ones that weave in and around the desert landscape instead of cutting straight through, highway patrols rarely waste their time scoping it out. Too far from any cities or towns to be bothered by local police, and not suitable for homeless drifters or teenagers looking for a place to get drunk or high and have sex, but perfect for the tarantulas that scitter across the dead floor, and the cartels. 

The sounds of gunshots and car engines travel miles and miles before they reach a pair of ears, getting swallowed up by the winds that blow up from the canyons, covering any and all tire tracks or footprints within a few hours. Nothing within the building is ever touched, and only those “in the know” are aware of the spot in the back that houses the drop zone, buried under a foot and a half of hot sand. Mike Ehrmentraut is one of the few that knows this place well. It’s his job to know. And he knows that today something is very wrong. 

There’s cars parked at the station. A red Pontiac Grand Prix sits under the rusty awning, sticking out like a sore against the mute colored desert. A few more yards and he sees the black SUV. It’s enough of an anomaly to make him halt his own car, still more than half a mile away, and stare. 

No one else should be there. 

For a while he sits and waits, attempting to find any explanation to what he sees. The first being that the droppers are still here. Not likely. Mike never sees them, they never see Mike. 

The second possibility, and the most improbable, is that whoever is down at the station is meant to be there, and that unspecified instructions or details were a mistake on behalf of his employer. Mike doesn’t even bother entertaining this concept for longer than it takes to think it. 

That leaves the third, and most plausible, and the one that forces Mike to put his vehicle in park. After popping open his trunk, he slides on his protective gloves and begins to unroll the spined garden hose. It’s creation and last use seem like lifetimes ago, and it’s high time he replaces it with something more preferable. Carefully and quickly, he lays it across the dirt road, a few yards behind his own vehicle, mentally marking its location in his mind; the first turn after the skeletonized 1973 Ford. 

On his approach, his eyes investigate the structure as it comes into better view, searching for something. Figures inside the Pontiac or movement from the shack or desert, but turning up empty. And with the SUV, it’s impossible to see inside the tinted windows, half of it obscured by the shack. 

Mike parks in front of the Pontiac, pinning it between the back half of the larger automobile. And that’s when he sees it. 

A supine body next to the SUV. 

_Option three._

Every muscle in Mike tenses, but his face remains calm. Taking a deep breath, his gun becomes another limb, sliding easily into his hand from it’s holster. 

Poised to strike, he steps out, crouching behind his car. 

“You’re not supposed to be here,” Mike shouts, his voice echoing in the empty space. “This is your only warning. Come out now.”

Mike allows a reasonable amount of time to pass. 

Nothing.

Sighing, Mike approaches the shack, gun at the ready, avoiding the dust covered windows. 

All those times he’s been here, he’s never actually looked inside. Never needed to. The door nearly comes off its hinges when he bursts into the empty shack. Plumes of dust erupt from the movement, sweeping across the barren floor. The place bears an awful resemblance to the crack houses in Philly, besides the heat and sand, devoid of anything that could be used as cover for an assailant. No shelves, boxes, nothing. The place had been picked clean of important items years ago, leaving only trash and mice carcasses. Decades old garbage and crumbling walls crunch under his shoes as he checks the corners. There’s no signs of life, but Mike walks around the whole perimeter, still avoiding the windows. The floors creak and moan along the south wall, but other than that, nothing of import. He has to bite back the urge to shout “clear”. 

Mike gets to the single restroom in the corner, swinging the door open and whipping his gaze around the whole inside. Light from the single window above the grimy toilet shows another empty room, where another unfortunate rodent met its end.

Once he’s certain the shack is clear, he makes his way to the corpse outside. It’s a male, laying on the ground near the driver’s side. Hispanic. Possibly late thirties. Shaved head. Brown eyes glazed over and cold, staring up at the sky, a Desert Eagle resting just out of reach from his hand. Three holes in his chest, one in his hip. The blood from the wounds has dried, even in the ground around him. 

Mike doesn’t know him. That much is certain.

There’s no need to clear the vehicle. He can see from the shattered back window that it’s empty. The rear right tire is shot out and deflated, the passenger door hanging open. The thick stench of gasoline overpowers the blood, a steady drip leaking from underneath the car, mingling in the sand with the brown stain from the stiff. 

Trying to keep his nerve, Mike hugs the sides of the shack, circling around to the back. 

A second body. This one is more curious. Still a hispanic male, early thirties, but with a full head of hair. His clothes are more casual, opting for comfort rather than intimidation, unlike the first. The body’s on its side, but the bullet hole is in the forehead. Mike nudges the body with his shoe and it rolls onto its back, exposing the waxy face. No weapon.

This one he knows, though the name is lost on him. 

He works for the Salamancas.

 _Shot from behind while running?_

_No, the exit wound is in the back of his skull._ Probably caused by the assailant at the SUV, before their demise. 

_Or by someone else._

He looks back at the first body. He must’ve been going back to the car. _Running for cover?_

A few more steps and it becomes clear. The drop spot has been dug up, a thin mound of sand scattered around the location Mike has uncovered and buried again and again, a shovel is discarded a few feet away. 

The plastic barrel within it is completely empty. 

Bewildered, Mike’s gaze is drawn to a stack of rusted petroleum barrels, piled against the shack. Creeping forward, he finds a third body. Afro-carribean male, mid twenties. Shot in the chest and jaw, which now barely hangs onto his face. The body lies half exposed behind the barrels, like he’d been cowering behind them. 

Or taking cover, though that’s less likely. There’s no weapon.

As he proceeds around the corner, his eyes threaten to roll. A sigh huffs out his nose. Fourth body. White male. Blond hair. Several shots to the chest, falling down just in front of the barrels.

Mike’s blue eyes trace the scene once more. _Who came in which car? Who shot at who?_

Another question. _Who’s still alive?_

All the positions of the body suggest a fifth individual. A fifth shooter. Only one of the barrels is open, but it’s empty and much too small for an average man to hide inside. Frantic footprints in the sand around the body, taking off in the direction of the desert. They’re small, and Mike swears he sees the indentation of a sole and toes, along with a few drops of blood. 

Mike squints at the desert. Miles and miles of wasteland stretch in front of Mike. The assailant is barefoot and injured, with nothing but wilderness. _They wouldn’t get far._

It takes him less than a second to conclude. _They’re still here._

The solace is pierced by a car engine roaring to life, music screaming above the carnage. Mike whips around and charges for the front of the building. He rounds the corner just in time to see the red Pontiac crashing through the rotting wooden posts of the awning, tires squealing and spitting up dirt as it speeds up the street. _Cholo_ music decreasing in volume as gains distance.

Mike takes aim, but stops himself. _The spike strip._

He gets in his own car, more calm now, and nonchalantly drives up the road after the Pontiac. The car is speeding wildly through the winding road, each turn threatening to send it tumbling down the ravine. Mike waits, watching as it gradually approaches the spike strip, giving no indication of slowing down.

The explosive _pop_ is audible even from within his own car. The Pontiac swerves, the driver fighting to gain control as the vehicle plummets into the ravine, vanishing into a cloud of dust. 

_Gotcha._

The dust is settling from the crash as Mike nears. The shallow ravine has the car wedged on top of a rock, hazard lights flashing and the alarm blaring above the _cholo_ music coming from the radio. The back wheels continue to spin, free from friction aloft in the air and completely decimated by the spike strip. 

The driver could be dead. _I’ve seen people survive worse._

Mike opts to proceed with caution. He gets out and slowly approaches the crash. The tints on the windows make it impossible to see inside. He circles to the front, hand slowly inching toward the gun in his back pocket. The grill is crushed enough to have the hood ajar. The windshield is untinted but shattered. Through the cracks and shards, there’s movement behind the deployed airbag. 

Mike reflexively draws his gun. 

“Out of the car!” he shouts, his face remaining stoic.

The driver stirs. It takes another moment before the door swings open.

“Hands up. Now!”

They don’t comply. Mike charges around the hood, ducking down and peering over the shattered headlight. 

Finger on the trigger, ready to shoot whoever climbs out. 

The driver falls into the sand, grunting and cursing to themself. A figure that sets off his cop intuition and makes him relax his index finger. Confusion and shock threaten to overtake his face. 

A girl. 

Feral is a cruel but accurate term to describe her. She struggles to even stand on her stick-like legs, like a newborn foal. Mismatched clothes that are far too big cover her thin, shuddering frame as she takes in harsh, rapidfire breaths. The girl staggers through the dirt, disoriented from the crash, until her dazed eyes suddenly land on Mike. They grow wide and wild, overflowing with terror.

Gun now down at his waist, Mike steps forward cautiously, closing the gap between the two of them. Lips cracked and veins bulging, there’s no telling when she last had food or water. Or seen sunlight. Her skin is nearly translucent. Bright crimson spills down her hollow face from a fresh wound on her skull, joining the much darker stain on her shoulder, one that comes from a hole in the fabric that looks eerily similar to a gunshot. Mike’s so entranced by the girl that he doesn’t notice the long, black object in her trembling hand. Only after he sees the bruises, the ones that ring her wrists so deeply, does he see the revolver.

His own weapon jumps back to his chest. “Drop it! Now!”

The girl doesn’t move. Her frightened eyes, still staring directly into his, start to glaze over. What little color she has in her face drains, and the revolver slowly slips out of her hand. Bright eyes dim and roll into her head as she collapses. 

Another instinct kicks in. “Shit—”

Mike dives, grabbing her just before she hits the ground. He lays her down slowly, sliding the revolver away and holstering his own gun. He kneels down, pressing two fingers into her small neck, feeling a delicate pulse. Weak heartbeat, but it’s there. Her head wound doesn’t look too severe, but it’s hard to tell which colors on her body are fresh bruises, scars, or filth. He pulls down at the collar on her shirt, observing the recent hole made in her shoulder. It missed the important parts, but blood gushes out of it relentlessly. 

The job returns to his mind, and he turns his gaze toward the car. Mike stands up, not bothering to dust himself off. He pokes his head into the driver side, switching the engine off and quieting the loud, overbearing music. There’s a blue duffle bag in the back, one that drags down towards the earth when he yanks it out. 

He doesn’t need to open it to know what’s inside.

Mike turns to walk away. His legs stop moving, and he looks back at the young girl, bleeding out in the dirt. 

_Bruised. Malnourished. Shot—_

Not his problem.

_Dehydrated. Neglected. Abused—_

He doesn’t know that. There could be other factors at play. 

_Young. Afraid. Bleeding. Dying—_

Not his job. Not his problem. He finally takes a few steps forward, before one last thought makes him freeze. 

_What if it was Kaylee?_

He can’t fight it. The duffle bag drops and the old man turns around, sliding his jacket off and unbuttoning his shirt. With the long sleeves and a stick the width of a cigar, he fastens a tourniquet around her shoulder, tight enough to decrease the blood flow. 

Then he scoops her up, no second thought. It’s easier than he thought, like picking up his granddaughter, though she’s twice her length. He carries her to his car and places her gently in the back seat, suppressing a shudder when the new position exposes a set of scars on her back. He covers them with his dusty jacket. 

The duffle bag and the revolver are thrown in his trunk. As soon as he’s on the road, he flips open his phone, speedily dialing a familiar number. It goes straight to voicemail, as expected.

“It’s me,” he says. “There was an incident at the station. I’d rather discuss it at length. Call me back.”


	2. Maldito Domingo

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "La Peinada" by Chuy Lizarraga y Su Banda Tierra Sinaloense

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Apologies for my Spanish. It's not as good as it should be.
> 
> Translations:
> 
> Gringo - white guy  
> Gilipollas - douchebag  
> Putas - bitches (yeah, bitch)  
> Yerba - slang used by my coworkers for weed

The swing of the door and a flash of hot air alerts him to someone new, but Nacho only looks up for a second. Domingo saunters in, anxiously running a hand through his black hair. The kid’s only a few years younger than Nacho, but seems to deplete in age the second he enters _El Michoacano_ , stopping in his tracks when he sees that Nacho is not alone. 

He’s finishing up with another dealer, some gringo he’s met once or twice, who wears vibrant, oversized clothes and speaks way too much. Luckily Nacho’s learned to quiet the kid with a single look. He flips through the stack of twenties and fifties as Domingo stands near the door, waiting patiently with his eyes aimed downwards, occasionally glimpsing at the service window to the kitchen. All owed present, Nacho puts down the last bill and exhales through his nose. 

The gringo waits a few beats before asking, “Is... Are we good?” 

For the first time that day, he meets the kid’s gaze. The gringo immediately recoils in his chair, Adam’s apple bobbing in his throat. With a small nod, Nacho swipes his eyes towards the door. The gringo stands up quickly, falling off balance when he passes Domingo. The door swings shut with a chime. 

Domingo smirks nervously. “Who’s that _gilipollas?”_

“New guy,” Nacho says, piling up the cash. “You’re early.”

Despite his attire, Nacho can tell that the kid’s gotten bigger. The sides of his hair have shortened in an attempt to look less boyish. However, he still shrinks when he approaches Nacho, hunching his shoulders in submission. His hands are in the pockets of his jacket to hide the shakes. They tend to whenever he or Lalo is around. 

“Something’s... come up,” he mumbles, taking a seat.

A fire lights in his chest. Nacho turns his head slowly towards Domingo, staring into his round, brown eyes. A trick he learned from Tuco. The kid almost caves into himself.

“One of our guys, Dante,” he explains, gesturing with hands still in his jacket. “No one’s seen him for a few days.”

Nacho creases his brow. He knows Dante, only met him a few times. Average height, lighter skin. Typical looking Mexican _hombre_. Only thing that stands out is the blasphemous tattoo on his neck; a snake strangling a cross. He’s been around for a while, never had a desire to do more than get by. Always on time. Never short on his pay. 

“He missed a meet up with me, yesterday,” Domingo goes on, stirring in the chair. “Apparently no one’s seen him since Wednesday. His place is empty. We tried calling Ricardo, I guess they’re close. He’s not answering.”

“They cut and run?” Nacho feels a set of eyes on the back of his neck, observing him through the service window. 

The kid shakes his head. “Nah, they wouldn’t do that—“

“Hey, _Ocho Loco!”_

Domingo’s gaze goes behind Nacho, straightening up in his chair. Nacho’s shoulders tense as footsteps approach from behind. The thin yet towering frame of Lalo Salamanca appears next to him, giving Domingo a mustachioed smile. 

_“Como estas, mi amigo?”_

The nervous smile regrows on the kid’s face. _“Bueno. Es solo—“_

“One of his dealers is missing,” Nacho interrupts, trying to quell the irritation in his voice. 

Lalo’s playful tone remains. “Missing? _Quién es?”_

“Dante.”

“Dante! That’s weird. Did he run out on you?”

“No, no,” Domingo insists. There’s a bead of sweat forming on his temple. “Dante’s not like that. I mean - I don’t know a lot about Ricardo, but Dante’s loyal. Tuco can vouch for him—“

“Tuco’s not here,” Lalo says, mimicking Nacho’s thoughts. There’s a new edge in his voice, one that causes Domingo to shrink back in his chair. Even Nacho clenches his jaw with unease. 

“What are you saying, Dom?” Nacho asks.

The kid shrugs. “I don’t know, man. I’m just saying, it’s not like them. They’re loyal. Something else might be happening. Ricardo’s crossed territory before. Maybe they...”

“I’m sure it’s just a misunderstanding,” Lalo says, the cheeriness returning. He walks up to Domingo, placing a hand on his shoulder. “For all we know, the two are just held up somewhere with some _putas y yerba._ Give them another day, then we’ll worry.” He meets Nacho's gaze. “Right, Ignacio?”

Nacho nods. 

_“Bueno.”_ Lalo smiles at Domingo. _“Hasta luego, Ocho Loco.”_


	3. Feral

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "The Choice" by Gustavo Santaolalla

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Translations:
> 
> Joder - ah, fuck it (though I'm not sure how accurate that one is)  
> Perrita - little bitch

The drive feels longer than usual. Mike constantly glances at the unconscious girl in the rear view mirror, avoiding potholes and sharp turns. The last thing he needs is her waking up, though as the trip stretches on, there’s a thought gnawing at his mind that she never will. The car stops constantly, Mike reaching to the back seat to feel for a pulse. The heart still beats weakly but stubbornly, refusing to quit, despite being housed in a walking corpse. Her breathing is a little easier to monitor. Mike hears it gradually turn from soft wheezes to forceful gasps, which only makes him drive faster. 

By the time Mike arrives at the address, the sun has sunk over the horizon. The warehouse stands nearly invisible against the neighboring lots and condemned buildings, reeking of tetanus. Dark, glassless windows stare down at him as shredded, filthy tarps sway in the openings like blinking eyelids. Sun bleached paint peels off old, crumbling concrete. The sight makes Mike emit a sigh. The veterinary clinic was out of the question. His employer’s magic doctor was also not an option. Trying to get to Mexico would’ve been no better than dumping the girl in a river. 

There are two cars parked outside, out of view from the street. Mike pulls up, illuminating the two figures with his headlights. Much to his dismay, Victor, his employer’s right hand man, is standing next to a black Cadillac SUV. There’s another man with him, but Mike doesn’t recognize him. The two turn to his vehicle, almost in sync with one another. Soon after stepping out of his car, Victor’s next to Mike, craning his head to see inside the passenger seat.

“Where’s the girl?”

Mike ignores him, opening the back seat and grunting as he pulls her out. She’s still unconscious.

“Oh.”

Words are forming in Victor’s mind, but he bites them back, gesturing Mike to follow him. Mike carries the girl, still stunned at her lightness, into the darkened warehouse. As he cradles her lolling head against his chest, his mind again goes to Kaylee. All the times he has toted his sleeping granddaughter to bed, her breathing was steady and soft. The girl’s breathing has changed from harsh to painful. There’s a tightness in his own chest and a lump in his throat. 

Victor leads him through the dark. The other guy stays behind to watch the open doorway. The inside of the warehouse is a skeleton of a building, no rooms or walls, but no signs of asbestos. A lamp in the center illuminates an improvised operating room, where a less formidable figure stands waiting.

Caldera jogs up to Mike, taking the girl’s legs. Mike switches from a bridal carry to holding her shoulders up as Caldera leads him backwards. “Right this way. Watch her head.”

Mike picks up his pace. He’s not sure if it was the vet or Fring, but someone did their damndest to turn this place into a sterile operating room. Tarps and clothes cover all surfaces. Surgical tools and vials of unknown substances are laid across a table, one which legs are much too clean to have been there already. There’s items for IVs and a blood transfusion ready to go (Mike’s glad he remembered to eat lunch that day). A rolled up towel is at the head of a metal slab, and he lays her down on it, straightening out her body. 

Now under the light, the Vet sees his patient. His brow raises. “Holy shit.”

An image flashes in front of the old man’s eyes: a young woman in Philly. Prostitute. Raped. Stabbed to death. Found in a building similar to this one. Couldn’t be older than twenty. The girl has the same long, dark hair and emaciated features, but she could be between fifteen or thirty. It’s impossible to tell with the blood and dirt caking her face.

Victor appears next to him, eyes trained on the feeble body with disinterest. The gloved Vet swoops in, removing Mike’s makeshift tourniquet and bloody shirt with scissors, along with the filthy, sweat stained t-shirt, unflinching when it’s shown she’s wearing nothing underneath. Now exposed, the wound gushes like a leaking pipe. 

_“Joder,”_ Victor mutters. Her nakedness causes the younger man next to him to look away, though Mike’s unsure if it’s out of consideration or disgust. 

“Doesn’t appear to be any serious damage,” Caldera says calmly, tilting her body to the side with ease. “Clean shot, straight through, at an angle. Just missed the bone. Didn’t get a major artery or her lung, otherwise she’d’ve drowned or bled out by now. Seen plenty of these before.”

He moves to the head, bruised but no longer bleeding.

“She might have a concussion and a little bit of whiplash, but she’ll be alright.” He pauses, forcing down a dry swallow. “It’s the malnutrition and the—” he gestures to the rest of her “—I’d be concerned about.”

The vet douses a sterile cloth with one of the liquids. Mike assumes antiseptics, or something of that nature. He places it on the wound.

Instantly, the girl’s eyes fly open. 

Her body lurches upwards, an agonizing scream rising from her throat. It quickly turns to terror when she sees her surroundings: the strange faces, the unfamiliar ceiling, and the gloved hands pawing at her bare skin. She tries to squirm away and Mike lunges at her, Victor following suit.

“Grab her. Hold her down,” the vet grunts, still trying to clean the wound. 

Mike grips her left shoulder, pinning her to the table. Victor takes her legs, not being as successful in stabilizing her. Thin nails claw Mike’s hand that cups her mouth. It’s the first time Mike notices a small, black splotch on her left wrist. She writhes underneath their hold, allowing her cries to escape through the cracks between Mike’s fingers. Loud, piercing screams ring in his ears.

“Shut her up!” Victor growls. 

The vet doesn’t seem to hear him. He makes Mike flip her over, cleaning the exit wound on her back, repeating to her calmly, “It’s okay. You’re safe. You’re safe, hon. We’re trying to help you. It’s okay.”

Caldera’s words must sink in, because after a few moments, she stops struggling and lets Mike pin her down. Or she’s exhausted herself. He’s certain it’s the latter. Victor grips her ankles, panting faintly. Mike keeps a firm hold on her lower torso and left arm, her cries reduced to a litany of muffled swears and wheezes of pain. 

“Atta’ girl,” the Vet soothes, turning her back over. “You’ve been shot. We’re going to help you.”

The girl angles her head down to her mangled shoulder. A pained gasp escapes from her, along with the only cohesive thing she’s managed to say. 

“Oh fuck, fuck, _fuck_.”

Mike pushes her head back. “Don’t look.”

“It’s just a flesh wound,” Caldera states. “You’re okay.”

“Hold still, okay? Mike, hold her still.” The Vet grabs a clean syringe, popping the cap off. “I have to fix your shoulder. It’s going to hurt, so I’m going to give you something for the pain, okay?”

Her light eyes gawk at the syringe as it’s pressed into the vial of clear liquid. 

“No, I don’t want it.” Her voice is sore. Unused.

The Vet fills the syringe, tapping out the air bubbles and unimpeded by her pleas. 

She shakes her head. “No, no, no. I don’t want it.”

“For Chrissake,” spits Victor. “Just do it.”

Again, Mike tries to hold her still. “We’re trying to help you.”

“No, don’t. Please!” She thrashes her body back and forth. The first tears spill down her cheeks. “Please, I don’t want it! _I don’t want it!_ Please!”

A sob freezes in her throat when the needle pierces her bicep. After a few moments, all negative emotions have left her face. She’s overtaken by euphoria, completely lost in nothingness. Mike loosens his grip on her limbs, watching her dilated pupils flicker around behind half open eyelids, staring at something only she can see. 

Victor lets go of her legs. “You couldn't have done that earlier?”

Caldera shrugs. “It’s a _flesh_ wound. Didn’t know she’d fight. My normal patients don’t.” He stands up, walking towards Mike on the other side of the table. “Whichever arm you prefer, Universal Donor.”

Thick red liquid flows through the tube, connecting him to the girl. Caldera then attaches an IV to her other arm, giving her the nutrients and hydration she desperately needs. Victor stalks away, joining the spare man in the doorway. The spare has just finished a phone call and flips it closed. The two begin speaking, too quietly for Mike to hear.

Caldera’s stitching up her exit wound when he asks, “You want me to throw in a dewormer?”

It takes a few moments of silence for the vet to look up, seeing the old man’s hardened gaze. “Just a joke,” he mumbles. “Eases the tension. But honestly, I’ve seen cats with mange in better shape than she is. Is she one of yours?”

“No,” Mike snaps. “I just... Found her.”

“I don’t need to know details,” Caldera says. “Don’t really want to.”

It takes an hour before fresh stitches line her shoulder and head. Most of the grime and blood has been wiped away, especially on her face. Mike can see her age now, and it makes his stomach turn. She’s late teens, can’t be any older. Besides the head wound from the accident, there’s not a single scar, burn, or bruise her face. Her body is decorated in elevated stripes and purple splotches, but not her face, almost like it was intentional. 

Curiously, Mike grabs her left hand, lifting it up to the light. The black splotch he saw earlier is a series of lines, both thin and thick, in the image of a barcode, tattooed into her skin. _NR - 1011 - 19_ is inscribed underneath it. Young women with tattoos aren't unusual or strange, but he wouldn’t know one to get such an odd and unsettling marking in a place like that. 

“What’s that?” Caldera asks casually.

“Not sure.” _Nothing good._

Now finished, Caldera removes his gloves. He plops back down in his chair and rests his hands on his knees. He gestures at the tube in Mike’s arm. “Another half hour and she’ll be good. I’m assuming to give _you_ the rundown on—”

He’s words fade. Victor has rejoined them at the table, glowering down at Caldera. He waves his hand towards Mike. “Give us a minute.”

Caldera sighs and stands up, walking out the doorway with the spare following behind him. For a moment, it's just them in silence. A chill wind moves through the warehouse, and it’s just the sound of the tarps in the windows flapping like flags and the girl’s much healthier breaths. Mike awaits the reprimand, the one he knew was coming. Victor probably volunteered to give it to him. The two don’t necessarily see eye to eye on anything except doing what Gus says. 

Victor breaks the stillness. “We’ve got a problem.” 

Mike rolls his eyes. “You think?”

“Save it, smartass,” he snarls. “Tyrus just checked out the mess this _perrita_ made by El Malpias. You were right, those guys worked for the Salamancas. Which means we’re fucked when they find out about this.”

“They won’t,” Mike drones. “It’s handled.”

Victor’s hands tighten into fists, digging his nails into his palms. His jaw clenches hard enough to shatter teeth. The way his eyes dart between him and the girl causes Mike’s gun to feel heavy. He has the same look on his face, the one from earlier. Biting his tongue, holding back something acidic. 

“You got something to say, Victor.” Mike’s tone borders on threatening. “Say it.” 

“You should’ve let her die.”

“Ah, Christ,” Mike grumbles. “She’s a civilian. A kid—”

“She’s a _witness_ ,” he retorts. “Civilian or not, doesn’t matter. If it were me, I’d’ve shot the bitch myself. Put her out of her misery. Hell, I’d’ve done it when you got here.”

“Fring wants her alive.”

“Because he likes you,” Victor sneers. “Because you’re too much of a pussy to off a little girl—”

“Because he’s _smart—_ ”

“If he _is_ smart, he’ll hand her over to them himself,” he continues. “She’s not worth it. Face it, Mike. Killing her was the right move. It would’ve been merciful. Quick. Painless. It won’t be when the Salamancas get a hold of her. You think just because Hector’s shitting his pants in a nursing home, that he’s not above killing women or children?”

No, he’s not. Mike knows the men he’s dealing with, but he knows his employer never does anything without a purpose. Fring called him back. After the situation was explained, he told Mike to keep her alive. Gustavo Fring always had a plan. Hector Salamanca is the opposite. Impulsive. Erratic. Overcompensating. Merciless, even to civilians. He still remembers the driver he left tied up in the desert, the good Samaritan civilian who came to his aid, and how the Salamanca’s repaid him with a bullet to the head. 

Victor goes on. “He finds out she cost him two guys, maybe even a little money, he’ll have her skinned alive. She’d be better off bleeding out in the desert.”

Mike’s hands shake. 

“And when he finds out _who_ saved _her_ , he’ll do the same to you. And your daughter-in-law. And your granddaughter—”

“Fuck you.” 

The warehouse echoes with his words. Victor is taken aback, his imposing demeanor shrinking down and his fists unclenching. The girl stirs, her eyes attempting to open, but being held down by the drugs. Mike puts a hand on her shoulder and she relaxes. 

“I think you’re missing the point here, Victor.”

“And what’s that?”

“You say she’s a witness.” Mike stands up, squaring his chest to the much younger man. “To what exactly? As far as we know, those guys weren’t supposed to be at the drop zone. It’s not their territory. Meaning whatever they were doing wasn’t approved by Lalo, or Hector.”

“ _Or_ it was,” Victor counters. “And it was sabotage.”

“Then it was sabotage,” he agrees. “But wouldn’t you want to know what exactly they were doing? Wouldn’t Fring want to know?” He points at the girl. “She’s the soul survivor, the soul witness. Once Fring gets what he needs from her, it’s his decision what happens to her next. Had he asked me, I’d have pulled over and left her there. If he wants her gone tomorrow, I’ll take care of it. But for now, he wants her alive.”

Victor doesn’t believe him, he can see it in his eyes. And even part of Mike wonders if it’s true. He _could’ve_ left her there to die, among the carnage, said the crash killed her. No one would’ve known. Or cared. But he didn’t. Why does it feel like he’s trying to convince himself.

“Count your blessings,” Mike mutters, turning his attention back to her. “The way I see it, Fring got his money back and the Salamancas lost four scumbags.”

“Two,” Victor corrects. “And that bag is $400,000 short.”

“ _E_ _xcuse_ me, two.” Unless Fring wants him to be bothered, which on the phone, it seemed to be the least of his worries, the money’s not going to dwell in Mike’s thoughts. “Your money’s there. Just tell your boys to look harder. Can’t be that difficult. There’s only so many places to put that much.”

Another moment passes. “Who were the other two?”

“What ‘other two’?” Victor asks, creasing his brow. 

“There were _four_ bodies,” Mike clarifies, annoyed. “You said two worked for the Salamancas. Who were the other guys?”

“There were only two bodies, Mike.”

Confused, Mike stands up. “I saw them. There were four _._ ”

“Tyrus just dragged them and that car out of the dirt.” He seems just as confused as Mike. “There’s only two.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yes. I did rewatch an episode of Breaking Bad just to screen shot a frame and zoom in to make sure Mike is O-.


	4. The Other Two

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Don't go 'round tonight,  
> it's bound to take your life,  
> There's a bad moon on the rise
> 
> "Bad Moon Rising" by Creedence Clearwater Revival

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Translation:
> 
> Pendejo - dumbass

Trooper Stevens’ cruiser is the only protection from the vast abyss that surrounds him. Nothing, not the headlights from his vehicle or even the stars, pierces through the blackness of the desert night. With his last cup of coffee fading, Stevens rubs at his eyes, trying to keep his vision clear. The clock and its mocking digital light says only two minutes have passed since the last time he checked. 

Nights are filled with mind numbing, dull patrols on the highways of New Mexico. The days are filled with incessant hammering and ceaseless drilling as the subdivision expands. No white noise can drown it out, and he’s never been one to sleep easily. Tonight, the eerie silence is so deafening, he can almost hear his own heart pumping. It calls to him, making his head nod every so often, until he can’t fight it anymore.

 _No one will know,_ he thinks to himself. 

This stretch of highway rarely sees any traffic during the day, but the last vehicle to pass his stagnant cruiser was over an hour ago, and there’s very little chance another will at 2AM. The closest patrol is miles away. And he’s a light sleeper. The second a car approaches, he’ll wake up. 

His eyes close as soon as his head touches the chair. _Just fifteen minutes._

In what seems like an instant, headlights shine on his closed eyelids. 

It startles him awake, and he flips off his own lights to get a better look. A larger vehicle, probably a truck or an SUV, is barreling down the highway eastbound to Texas. Tail lights reflecting off of something, maybe a camping trailer, hitched to the back. As it gets closer, Stevens squints, until he sees more clearly. It’s a truck with a cover on the bed, towing another vehicle; a black SUV. There’s no obvious damage to the front of the car, and the hazard lights aren’t blinking.

Stevens, with his little experience and naivety, admits it’s suspicious. Especially the lack of hazards lights.

 _Something’s wrong,_ he thinks, just as the convoy passes. 

He flips on the lights and siren, speeding after the two. As he approaches, he sees the SUV is covered in dust. A lack of light reflecting on the back shows that there’s no rear window. The two back tires are lopsided, one an apparent spare. Strips of black duct tape, just a slightly different shade of black, covers the trunk. The back left tail light is shattered. 

_That’s why they’re not on, you idiot._

Before he has a chance to call off his pursuit, the convoy begins to slow, pulling over to the shoulder of the road. Stevens sighs, feeling his face burn with embarrassment as he does the same. He parks, puffing up his chest and exiting the cruiser. 

Stevens tries to put on an air of confidence, though his stomach grows with shame. He prepares for the confused irritation he’ll get, rehearsing his apology in his head. Though he takes a better look at the SUV as he passes, shining his light inside. It’s empty, aside from broken glass. 

The driver window rolls down as he approaches sheepishly. The driver is a man, about mid forties, with buzzed blond hair and an old leather jacket. There’s a passenger that he can’t make out, aside from the heavy layers of flannel and denim.

“Sorry to bother you, sir,” Stevens says, using his professional voice. “Car trouble—?”

It all happens in less than a second. 

The long, dark object appears through the window with a flash of harsh light and a muffled blast. A force smacks his throat, shoving him backwards and he struggles to stay on his feet. Warm, sticky fluid spills between his fingers and fills his throat, drowning his lungs in it. 

Stevens falls to his knees, trying to crawl away. The car door behind him opens.

“ _Pendejo,_ ” a gruff voice speaks. “How’d you miss the head?!”

“Shut the hell up,” says another. 

The shock fades. Adrenaline spikes. Stevens goes for his gun, before another bullet strikes him in the head.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> RIP Trooper Stevens.


	5. The Coati

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Para mi no existe el cielo (for me there is no heaven)  
> ni lun ni estrellas (neither moon nor stars)  
> para mi no alumbra el sol (the sun doesn't shine for me)
> 
> "El Preso" by Fruko y sus Tesos

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Although I like writing in third person, I try to still show the character's voice with a different style. And the amount of fun I had writing for a psychopath was probably not healthy.
> 
> Translation: 
> 
> Pagado - paid

Even at this hour, the middle-aged Chilean is dressed in a gray suit coat with a spotless pastel shirt and tie. Short, curly, salt and pepper black hair slicked and gelled down, undisturbed by the warm breeze that carries up from the city below. His silver rimmed glasses reflect all the artificial stars of Albuquerque. Two sets break off from the galaxy, slowly gaining size as they grow closer. 

On schedule, here to bring the “development”. 

Inconveniences are common in his line of work, and Gustavo Fring always tries to view them as such. Problems, though not inconsequential, easily remedied, with as little attention drawn as possible. Usually these missteps are minor, flying blissfully under the radar of Don Eladio or the DEA or the higher ups at Madrigal. Resolved with simplicity, while Gustavo maintains a cool head and well kept wardrobe. This recent incident in El Malpais has come very close to loosening his tie. 

Not the carnage, no. Gustavo has never had a weak stomach and has disposed of his fair share of corpses. The expenses, however, raised his blood pressure. The veterinarian doesn’t work cheap, and the two dead Salamanca scum already cost him $400,000, possibly lost to the will of the desert, the one force he cannot control. Now Lalo Salamanca’s breath will undoubtedly be going down his neck, despite Tyrus’ assurance that there’s nothing linking the deaths of Ricardo Herrera and Dante Fuez to his enterprise. 

Except, of course, the witness. The civilian, whoever she may be. Not an associate of the Salamancas, according to Victor, who knows every dealer under the payroll of Hector. The closest possibility is a lover or family member of Herrera or Fuez. Though the physical state Michael describes says her participation was not willing. A hostage, maybe? A bargaining chip? He knows one phone call to Ignacio will answer his question, but he holds off. 

He needs to know what the girl knows. After that, Ignacio will be informed of the location of the dead men. 

That just leaves disposing of the girl. He’ll make it quick for her. Painless. Fortunately for Gustavo, a new construction project will lay their foundation Tuesday morning. The sight is not guarded, easily accessed. Michael will not like this, but an anonymous donation to the family, if one comes forward, should ease his guilt. 

No body for the police. The Salamancas will find their men dead in a shootout by unknown assailants. No evidence of Gustavo’s involvement. Hopefully their desire to track down those responsible will remove Lalo’s prying eyes away from him. 

That itself may make the financial loss worth it.

His reverie is interrupted by the crunch of tires on gravel. Victor and Leo exit their now parked SUV, the latter staying near the vehicle by the trunk. The second vehicle, the familiar black Chrysler, slows to a stop. Victor approaches Gustavo, fists squeezed tight. 

_“El veterinario?”_ Gustavo inquires. 

_“Pagado._ ”

Michael has exited his vehicle and joined them. Stress and exhaustion have added more wrinkles to his face. Victor’s shoulders tense, intentionally avoiding the old man’s line of sight. 

Gustavo switches to English. “Do we have his discretion?”

“Yeah.” It’s Michael that speaks. “No questions. He won’t talk.”

“You trust this?”

Michael nods. Satisfied, Gustavo turns his neck to face Victor. “Where is she?”

The question causes a micro-reaction from Michael. He sniffs, his face twisting into a snarl that vanishes as quickly as it appears. Victor walks past Leo towards the trunk of the SUV, unsheathing a flashlight. The old man follows behind Gustavo. 

The trunk pops open, Victor stepping to the left. A beam of light shines directly at the sight. A frail, small thing lies on the ground of the trunk. Hands and feet bound, a sack over the head, concealing the face. A jacket, one that Gustavo recognizes as Michael’s, has been placed on top of the body, nearly covering it from neck to thigh. He pulls it down, exposing the bandaged wound on her shoulder. Half naked, but it doesn’t arouse any emotion within himself. He’s more intrigued by the scars, the short ones about the arms and stomach seemingly self imposed, but the longer ones on the back, much older and more perplexing.

The body doesn’t stir, its chest steadily rising and falling. He removes the sack from the head.

The face now visible, his shoulders drop, straightening his spine even more. His expression remains unchanged while the archive of his mind flips through files. He keeps his hands at his side, taking in the features. A slim but youthful jawline. Pale, plastic looking skin. Freckles on the nose. Dark, Latina lashes and unkempt hair, though based on the skin tone, not purebred. 

Gustavo is cursed to never forget a face, though a different, more ancient memory emerges. His small, bony knees resting in the dirt and rocks that dug into his skin. His head peeking through a space underneath his home, adjusting to the darkness to find it. A small mass of fur, bundled up and shielding itself from his gaze with its long, ringed tail. Black stripes down its shining eyes, like streaks of tears. Nail-like claws clutching a lucuma fruit.

The incident at the drop zone plays out in his mind, much more clearly this time. All pieces fall into place, building a near perfect tapestry. Gustavo knows exactly what transpired, all in a matter of two seconds. In the third second, he discards his old plan about the construction sight and formulates a new one. 

Though Gustavo does his best to hide his newfound comprehension, Michael watches on, studying him in a way that smells of distrust. Victor’s eyes flick between Gustavo and the girl, waiting for a response. “She look familiar to you?”

The Chilean takes a slow, calculated breath. In through the nose and out through the mouth. “No.”

The answer satisfies the younger man. Michael, however, shifts his weight from one leg to another, his fists opening and closing. Gustavo is impressed, though slightly unnerved that Michael was able to catch his lie.

“Is she drugged?” Gustavo asks. 

“Yeah.”

The Chilean nods. “Keep her that way.”

“Don’t you want her awake for the—?”

“We are not torturing a civilian.” Gustavo’s voice causes Victor to back away. “I did not pay Caldera to stitch her up, only have her ripped open and left for the coyotes.”

Victor gives his boss a frustrated nod. Michael seems to relax. He reaches down, pulling the jacket back up to the girl’s neck, restoring her modesty. In her sleep, she curls up underneath it, releasing a narcotized sigh. 

“I want her across the border before she wakes,” he announces. “Make the necessary preparations.” When the younger man lingers, Gustavo looks at him. “Leave us.”

He obeys, walking away from the vehicle and opening his cell phone. Leo follows him. Gustavo waits until they are a safe distance away before he speaks again, his voice concealed by the sound of the car engine. 

“Victor is angry.” It’s not a question.

Michael exhales. “He thinks we should’ve killed her.”

There’s something in his eyes as he looks at the girl. Sympathy, though Michael is good at hiding it. Nothing on his face shows his concern for the thing in the trunk, only his eyes. When she stirs again, his finger tips twitch. A fatherly instinct, a desire to comfort. To protect. He’s holding it back.

“You disagree,” Gustavo states.

The old man’s gaze is locked on her. “I like to avoid killing children.”

“These things have consequences, Michael,” Gustavo says, eyeing the Veterinarian’s handiwork on her skull. It’s acceptable, but he knows his man would’ve done better. Offered her better accommodations, better care. Even the drugs that she’s on, the way her eyes twitch and her throat moans, Gustavo knows it’s a street variety. Highly addictive and cut with nonsense. “Collateral damage, as you would say.”

“So why keep her alive? I know why I would, but why you? I know it’s not out of the goodness of your heart.”

The comment amuses him. “Her survival is beneficial.” 

“Does Lalo know?” 

Gustavo sighs, the man’s name causing his blood to boil. “As far as Lalo is aware, Ricardo Herrera and Dante Fuez are missing. The forming narrative is that they stole their earnings, their product, and ran. ”

“Do you think that’s what really happened?” Mike asks. 

Fring hangs his mouth open before answering. “The evidence suggests so. This is not the first time this has happened with one of Hector’s men. If this is what the Salamancas choose to believe, so be it. Whether Herrera and Fuez betrayed the Salamancas, it’s of no difference to me. They were nothing special.” He pauses. “Of course, if that is the case, where is the money they stole from Lalo?”

“Probably with the $400,000.”

A nod. “All this will be cleared up, once she’s awake.”

Michael is silent, a question forming in his mind. He lets the sound of the car engine and the desert wind fill the space for a few moments, before inquiring, “How’d they know about the drop zone?”

Again, Gustavo thinks of the coati from his boyhood. 

All around it were remnants of lucuma fruit. Pits discarded, only gnawed on, but not completely consumed. Dozens upon dozens of fruits, unsellable. Wasted. Rotten. The image still swells the same amount of rage within Gustavo’s chest. The wretched thing, hiding in a hole, starved of sunlight, squeaking as if it was laughing. Relishing his misfortune.

It was the first time he remembered wanting to snap a neck.

“They wouldn’t,” Gustavo says simply.

There’s a pause. 

_“She_ brought them there.” Michael looks down at the girl. “How?”

The girl’s neck is slender. He could probably wrap his whole hand around it. Twist it, like ringing out a wet rag. Quick. _Merciful._ It’s what _he_ would want Gustavo to do. Tie up _his_ loose end. Clean _his_ mess. He reaches down, taking her bound wrists instead. The tattoo is visible, but barely. 

“She will tell us,” Gustavo says.

There are better ways to punish your enemies.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks so much for the support. I started this a while back during a binge of Better Call Saul, but started REALLY trying to turn it into something during this whole quarantine thing. I haven't written anything in a couple years, so I still need to stretch. Thanks again for the love!


	6. NR-1011-19

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "All Gone" by Gustavo Santaolalla

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Laptop fixed, back to business.

A sensation holds her body and mind hostage as she steps through the doorway, one that she’s intimate with and should give her cause to panic. Instead, her body clings to the feeling. Pure, unadulterated euphoria, though it’s fading faster with each heavy step, a discomfort growing in her right shoulder. 

It takes a few moments for her intoxicated eyes to adjust to the blinding sunlight. Even when the Adobe walls come into view, circling her like a corral, it’s just a blur of brown against the blue sky. The ground is light and powdery, burning hot on her bare feet. Clothes on a line billow in the afternoon wind, a gentle breeze that rustles through the trees, mixing with the birdsong and bleating of sheep. Out of sight, but close enough that the smell is carried with the scent of oncoming rain. She stands entranced, body swaying from side to side with the wind, basking in the sunlight, mind blank as the intoxication embraces her gently. 

For a moment, she believes she’s dead.

Movement from across the yard snaps her out of her trance. A figure emerges from a gaping, black hole in the wall, the sunlight catching on the array of colors it carries in a basket. The figure moves gracefully along the wall towards the line of clothes, bright pink and orange dress blowing in the breeze. She watches as it halts there and begins replacing the dry clothes, until it freezes, solidifying into an old, weatherworn face of a woman. Brown eyes widen, looking up and down at the thing standing by the doorway.

The woman’s mouth opens, unleashing a nervous and stressed, _“Michael._ ”

A new figure comes out of the same hole in the wall. A blob of fleshy peach and bright green, which pauses just as it enters the courtyard to observe the girl in the doorway. They stay there for a beat before approaching her, their face becoming more clear with each step. A narrow and sagging visage, like a bloodhound and old, icy blue eyes that burn through her skull and into her memories. 

Or dreams, though the more appropriate word would be nightmare. 

Driving fast, too fast, kicking up the desert under shrieking tires. Her shaking body wracked with sobs of adrenaline as she repeatedly glanced up at the rear view mirror. The gas station grew smaller and smaller, until something popped.

Something _exploded_.

The wheel jerked to the side, the car coming to a complete and violent stop in a ravine. Stars burst around her when her head bashed against the steering wheel. There’s a voice yelling at her, though her ears roared so loudly she didn’t know what they were saying. She opened the door, collapsed into the sand, the desert reeling around her until she noticed something there. 

_Someone_ there. Pointing a gun at her.

Her mind sobers when the man is only a few feet away.

She wants to run, but her legs won’t listen. All she can do is take a trembling step back, heart pounding in her ears. The discomfort in her shoulder is now a burning pain, her eyes catching sight of the bandages taped to her skin. White cloth stained brown, smelling of iron and alcohol. 

The ground starts to get close when her legs disappear from underneath her. Arms catch her before she can make contact, surrounding her in a blur of bright green.

“I got you.”


	7. Dig Yourself a Hole

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> I ain't tired for sweating for blood and dirt  
> I ain't tired of sweating for what it's worth  
> Cause lines get drawn and lines get kicked and blurred
> 
> "What Makes a Good Man" by the Heavy

Once it was dark in Philadelphia, a different type of animal crawled out of the crevices, roaming the streets, unleashing all kinds of mayhem. No night was quiet. Each call either a petty inconvenience, or enough stave off Mike’s sleep for weeks. The cyclicality of it, the fact that with each sunrise meant another sunset, another night where a mother would lose a son. A girl raped. An innocent stabbed. Over time, it was enough to drive anyone off the edge of a building. You either accept it, silence it with a bottle of whiskey, or let it overtake you.

Mike always chooses the former, but he still remembers Cynthia Bauer.

He’d been called about a domestic dispute. It wasn’t the first time the neighbors complained about this particular residence, but the male factor seemed to change from season to season. Always the same woman, though. White, mid-forties, bleach blonde hair and tobacco stained teeth. Rachel Bauer, living in the cycle, the rhythm, with her preteen daughter Cynthia.

When he knocked on the door of the house, a pit formed in his gut, the absence of arguing unusually loud. With those calls, they rarely stopped before the cops arrived. Rachel especially never let up until someone threatened to arrest her. 

Rachel answered the door, and Mike immediately drew his weapon.

Her clothes were stained scarlet, the stench of iron choking the air. She didn’t acknowledge the gun, giving Mike a polite smile, and placing a glistening butcher knife on the ground. 

To this day, her words send chills up his spine.

“We’ll be quiet now.”

Cynthia was found hiding in the closet, but there was something off about her. Most people react differently to shock, especially children, but Cynthia wasn’t reacting. She wasn’t catatonic, no. She was responsive. Answered every question asked of her, but without emotion, like she’d forgotten how to feel. 

Rachel was bipolar. Never had any form of treatment. Had a string of abusive and drug addicted boyfriends, but for some reason, still had custody of her daughter. He’d seen cases like that over and over, the system failing children until they’re shells of former innocence, doomed to repeat every mistake of their parents. As Mike pulled Cynthia out of the closet, she was empty. No sign of tears, just resignation. Acceptance. 

The girl has the same look as Cynthia Bauer.

Whatever hell she had endured, and everything after, the shootout, the crash, there’s nothing on her face. No fear or confusion, just melancholy. Thin legs, now covered in fresh, clean jeans, dangle off the edge of the examination table. To some, she could appear catatonic, or still under the influence of the morphine, but Mike knows different. There’s a consciousness in her green, lightness eyes that remain fixed on the back wall, not bothering to brush her dark hair out of her face, or wipe the sweat gathering on her forehead. Despite her previous behavior while under the knife, she doesn’t fight this time. She doesn’t protest. 

Resignation. Acceptance. 

The massive figure of Dr. Barry Goodman moves around her in a way done by EMTs, checking for open wounds or contusions, while Mike watches in the corner, arms folded across his chest. The questions he asks are basic, used to detect shock or brain trauma. The cadence of his voice remains monotone and disinterested. The girl answers each one, a nod for yes and a head shake for no. Dr. Goodman waits patiently for each response. When the questions, “how old are you” and “what’s the date” arrive, she responds with a weak, “I don’t know.”

“That’s okay,” he soothes. “Can you tell me your name?”

There’s no head shake this time. The girl just looks down at her lap. There’s no frustration or wheels turning in her head, just refusal to answer the question. Dr. Goodman looks to Mike, as if to ask if he should press her. The old man shrugs.

“That’s okay,” he repeats in the same tone. “If it comes to you, just let me know. Here’s the good news. Your stitches aren’t infected, so there’s one thing we don’t have to worry about. Dr. Caldera did a great job. But, since this is Mexico and the water isn’t exactly Dasani quality, I’m going to give you some antibiotics and recommend you avoid showering for a few days.”

Mike suppresses a frown. The thing looks like she’s hurting for one of those, and he’s just noticing the smell coming off her.

“Let’s just check everything else real quick.” He pinches her wrist, eyeing the barcode tattoo before looking down at his watch. “Is your vision blurry? Are you having trouble seeing right now?”

She shakes her head no.

“Are you nauseous?” he asks, shining a small light in her eyes. “Dizzy?”

Again, no. 

This next move, Dr. Goodman does cautiously. He pulls out his stethoscope, securing it in his ears. The girl sucks in a sharp breath, tensing her body as the other end goes up the back of her shirt. Mike stands poised, ready to intervene for Dr. Goodman’s sake. 

“Okay, that’s good. Breathe.”

She takes in a large, strained breath, one that Mike can tell causes her a severe amount of pain. Her eyes grow wet with each inhale, until the doctor is satisfied and the stethoscope is removed. 

“A rib is cracked,” he announces to Mike, returning the instrument to its place around his thick neck. “I’ll give you something for that, and your shoulder, make you more comfortable—“

“ _No_.”

For the first time, she’s looking at Dr. Goodman. Mike creases his brow. 

“I... I don’t want it,” she whispers, flustered. “I’m fine.”

Dr. Goodman looks to Mike, who gives him a small nod. 

“Whatever she wants,” Mike says. _There’s a hole in her shoulder. If she wants to feel it, that’s her choice._

His words chip through her stoicism. She casts a brief glance to Mike, one that is filled with confusion, before returning to submission, receiving the rest of her examination in silence. Fresh bandages are applied to her head and shoulder, and her arm is placed into a sling.

Once it’s over, Mike stands in the other room with the doctor. 

“Tomorrow morning, I will take you back over the border,” Dr. Goodman says. 

Mike’s gaze doesn’t leave the girl in the examination room. Even alone, she stares at nothing. Doesn’t unwrap the lollipop Dr. Goodman gave her, Mike’s not sure if it was a joke or an honest gesture. 

“I’m staying.” 

“She will be safe here, Michael,” he assures. 

Mike grumbles, “It’s not her I’m worried about.”

Dr. Goodman chuckles softly. “I’m flattered, but I’ve had much, _much_ more dangerous patients than her.”

“Four men were killed,” Mike states. “Two were Salamancas, the others probably worse.” Most definitely worse, seeing as the corpses vanished into thin air. “We can’t be certain she didn’t have anything to do with it.”

“Michael, she doesn’t know where she’s been, or how long she was there.” He sets down his clipboard, putting his hand on his hip. “She doesn’t know how old she is, what _year_ it is. She could be the world’s most useless witness.”

“Or she’s lying,” Mike suggests. 

“Or she’s repressing. I mean, for God's sake, Michael, she looks like Gus pulled her out of Dachau. She’s obviously experienced some form of abuse or neglect. Captivity, even. It’s a miracle she’s not foaming at the mouth, trying to shiv us.”

“That’s what worries me.”

As usual, Victor has the wrong idea. The girl wasn’t with the Salamancas. Whoever those men were, the disappeared ones, _they_ knew her. They were after her, that much is clear now, but he doesn’t know why, or what the connection to the drop zone is, if any. 

But someone does, and once again, it infuriates him.

“Fring knows her,” Mike says. “He won’t say how, but he does.”

“Mr. Fring knows a lot of people, Michael. It’s the nature of the work.”

Mike exhales. Something more is going on, more than just a botched robbery in the desert. Cynthia Bauer crosses his mind one more time. “What about that tattoo? That mean anything to you?”

Sincerely, the doctor shakes his head. “Can’t say it does. But I will say this, Mr. Fring doesn’t bring just anyone to this place. Wherever this girl came from, it’s of a special interest to him.” He pauses, shrugging his broad shoulders. “I mean, he brought you here, didn’t he?”

***

The days events have drained the girl, and she immediately collapses into bed upon returning to Mrs. Cortazar’s. Mike leaves her medicine on the dresser, deliberating on whether to lock the door, before deciding against it. This causes Mrs. Cortazar distress, and she harps on Mike in Spanish, the old man only managing to understand “food”, “eat”, and “sick”. The girl hasn’t eaten anything all day, but Mike’s sure Mrs. Cortazar’s more worried about cooking twice in one night. He apologizes, but doesn’t go to wake her. Fring gave him instructions, the girl is not a prisoner, but a guest, and Mike doesn’t intend to make her feel any different. 

Late in the evening, Mike enjoys a meal prepared by Mrs. Cortazar. The language barrier prevents any awkward small talk, much to his enjoyment. When dinner’s over, Mike helps her clean up, before realizing she’s preparing a separate plate. 

_“Para ella,”_ she says, handing him the plate of chicken and rice. Then she points a finger at Mike, trying her best at English, “No mess.”

Mike bows his head. _“Si, Señora.”_

When Mike enters the bedroom, he’s disappointed, not shocked, to find it empty. The room remade and window open. The bottle of antibiotics has been left on the dresser, still at full dose upon inspection.

The fact that she would run is no surprise. He did the same when he was brought here. Angry, bleeding from his gut, and hellbent on drinking himself to death, he left the second he got the chance. To hell with Fring and everyone involved in that construction project. He would’ve walked all the way to El Paso, if it wasn’t for his sutures ripping open and Dr. Goodman chasing him down. 

The girl couldn’t have gone far, especially in her state. He takes the same path he did, leading outside of the village. It’s quiet, not heavily trafficked, with golden sunlight sinking behind the trees. With the knife wound absent, it’s a much easier walk this time around. With each step he takes, the memory of Cynthia Bauer grows stronger. 

That night in Philadelphia wasn’t the last time he saw her. 

It was years later, when Matty was just forming sentences, that Mike got a call to respond to an overdose. It was early in the morning, the night before had been slow, relatively speaking. Mike drove to the address, seeing the ambulance and medical investigator already there. The girlfriend had called it in, and she was sitting on the porch, giving her statement before being brought in for possession. Mike walked past the two and into the small apartment. Garbage and clothes from weeks of neglect were piled up in every corner, and there on a mattress in the middle of the room, was Cynthia Bauer. Dilaudid. She'd been dead for seven hours, and the girlfriend was so high she hadn’t noticed. 

His partner at the time was older than him, and had seen more shit throughout his career. He remembered Cynthia Bauer, too. He told Mike, “Sometimes you dig yourself into a hole, sometimes you're thrown into it. If you can’t climb out, you dig to stay alive.”

About a mile from Mrs. Cortazar’s ranch, he sees the small frame limping along slowly a few dozen yards ahead. Mike pauses, observing her attempts to walk with the same tactics as a newborn foal. Each step brings a loud crunch of gravel and a grunt of pain, one he can hear over the late evening bugs coming out for a drink. He watches her take a few more steps, until a hoarse voice breaks through the silence. 

“...Are you here to take me back?”

The two of them have stopped, standing in the middle of the road. 

“That’s what you’re here to do, right?” Like before, there’s no fear in her voice, just passivity. She speaks plainly, making an obvious effort to project her words. “Make sure I don’t run away?”

Mike permits a silence to fall between them, the natural sounds overtake the pair as they stand apart. He reaches into his pocket, pulling out the bottle of antibiotics, rattling the pills loud enough for her to turn around with curiosity. “You forgot these.”

Confusion crumples her sweat soaked forehead. For a few moments, she just stares at him, face pink from the exertion and sunlight. “Who are you?”

“Mike Ehrmantraut. I pulled you out of the desert.”

“I mean, who are you people?” 

The old man lowers the pill bottle, his face unchanging. 

“You don’t work for him,” she continues, her voice gaining strength as her emotions take over. “That much is obvious. So who are you? What do you want with me?”

“I don’t know which ‘ _h_ _im’_ you’re referring to,” Mike says, taking a few steps towards her. She shrinks back, her face turning from confusion to unease. “Unless it's the man you stole from two days ago.”

The girl’s jaw flexes. 

“That’s what this is about,” she chirps, vexed.

“Yes, that’s what this is about,” Mike drones, blinking slowly. “The man I work for, you don’t steal from people like him. Not without consequence. You’re lucky I was there and not someone else.”

The girl looks around. “You want me to say ‘thank you’?”

“One would be appreciated. It’s been a pain in the ass keeping you alive, and an even bigger one getting you here.” There’s another pause, Mike putting the pills back in his pocket, before stuffing his fists inside. The girl eyes him suspiciously, and Mike knows she’s looking for a weapon that doesn’t exist. “My employer wants to know how you knew where the money was.”

She bites her lip, folding her left arm over her shoulder.

“It was drug money.” Her voice is barely above a whisper. “I tell you, you kill me. I don’t, you kill me. That’s how this works.”

“If my employer wanted you dead, you’d already be that way.”

The girl winces, tightening her grip on her shoulder, probably regretting not taking the offer on pain meds. 

“This place, I was brought here, too,” Mike tells her. 

Her ears perk up. 

“My employer did the same for me. Picked me off the street, bleeding to death. Dumped me here.”

She asks softly, “Why?”

Mike shrugs. “The way I was going, there was only one end to that road. He wanted to show me another way.”

He feels a pain growing in his chest. She’s just a kid, but she’s in the game, in the hole, and Fring knows it. Whether she was thrown in like Cynthia Bauer, or dug herself in like Werner, she’s in it and there’s no climbing out. No scenario that works in her favor. All she can do is dig to stay alive.

“You can keep going down that road,” Mike says, gesturing with a nod towards the expanse of fields and mountains that stretch in front of them. “I won’t stop you, but I know how your story ends if you do. Those men you pissed off are still out there, and they won’t stop. They’ll find you, and I doubt they’re merciful.”

Whatever color given to her by the sun drains away. The strength has left her voice. “...What’s my other road?”

“You can stay here and find out.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter took the most time to write, and I revised it about a dozen times. Three different versions were written, and I chose the one that I think best fit the themes of the show.


	8. Los Sapos Hermanos

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> We went driving hard and wild across the country  
> We were having fun, even though we were dying
> 
> "Meshkalina" by Traffic Sound

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Translations: 
> 
> La Chingada - the boonies, in the middle of butt-fuck nowhere  
> Carnal - fellow Mexicano, kin  
> Parcero - Columbian slang for "friend"  
> Puta - Spanish for Jesse's favorite word  
> Sapos - literally toad, but also slang for a rat or traitor  
> Most of these are from work, others I had to ask.

Nacho knows this neighborhood well. Five years of his boyhood were spent in _la chingada,_ him and his three younger brothers confined to a single bedroom. The swamp cooler was busted for the first year, their nights serenaded by the sounds of domestic disputes and gringo music coming through the open windows. Nacho was the only son who remembered Mexico, and they only one who believed their Papa’s assurance that their life was better. At least here, his sons would have a chance at a peaceful life, away from the seduction and violence of the Cartels.

_If only._

The area has become more white since Nacho’s days. All the faces passing by are predominately gringos, with the occasional _carnal_ or _parcero_ in the mix. Herrera's home looks similar to the others; fading adobe stained from cigarette smoke, windows in desperate need of a wash, and nonexistent lawns, replaced by weeds breaking through rocks. As Nacho approaches, an audience of gringos in their twenties smoking stare suspiciously from the house next door. Loud, obnoxious music plays from a radio while they lounge on lawn chairs, the stench of skunk weed wafting from their joints.

He ignores the prying eyes, jumping the waist high chain link fence and strolling up to Herrera’s doorstep. A faint blue glow shines through the curtains on the main window.

The first series of knocks gives no response. Nacho glances down the street, studying the truck with a cover on the bed parked down the road. It’s too dark to see anyone inside, let alone if it’s a cop.

He knocks again. This time, he gets a response.

“Unless you work for Domino’s, fuck off!”

“Laynie, open up,” he shouts. 

The door opens just a crack, and Herrera’s sister scowls at him. 

In passing, Ricardo’s always referred to Laynie as his sister, though the resemblance is unsubstantial. Laynie’s as gringa as they come. It’s often a topic of debate whether they’re step siblings, half, or even related at all, the latter being the one people lean more towards. Her appearance makes Nacho recoil. Laynie’s younger than Herrera, though with her meth stained teeth and leathery skin, she looks almost forty. 

Nacho gets a whiff of skunk when she croaks, “What?”

“You’re Laynie, right?”

“Yeah.” The gringa’s plastic, pink claws scratch at a sore on her chin. “Who the fuck are you?”

“Ignacio, we’ve met before,” he says. “I work with Ricardo.”

Her eyes give him an up-down, before declaring, “Bullshit.”

The door’s almost slammed in his face. Nacho stops it with his foot.

“Listen,” he says, keeping his voice calm and feeling the scrutiny next door burn into the side of his skull. “It’s late, and I’m not in the mood. Where is he?”

Laynie’s unfazed, opening the door wider. “He’s not here. You wanna break my door down? Rip the place apart? Be my guest. I’ll just call _la policia_ on your beaner ass.”

The kids next door tense. Nacho peaks his head in the door, catching a glimpse at the pipe on the coffee table. “Go ahead, _puta._ ”

Defeated, Laynie walks back inside, leaving the door open. The place is an absolute mess. Not a single piece of furniture isn’t covered in take-out containers, empty beer cans, or discarded clothing, but underneath the garbage, Nacho can see the wealth. The stereo, the couch, even the coffee table looks like it costs more than the house. A rumba rolls around on the ground, trying in vain to clean up the mess, whirling around aimlessly like in a panic.

Nacho still stands, one foot out the door, and watches as Laynie returns to the only spot on the couch that’s not covered in debris. 

“Go ahead, look for him,” she says, plopping down on the sofa. She pulls out a cigarette and lights it. “Ricky’s gone. I dunno when he’s gonna be back, but I’m dying. He said he’d bring me a fix—”

“Did Herrera say where he was going?” 

“Huh?” she asks, puffing out smoke.

Nacho sighs. “Ricardo. Where’d Ricardo say he was going?”

The gringa blinks, eyes staring intently at the trashy show playing on TV. “Somewhere in like, in Texas or something. Houston or Austin. Something ‘ston’. I dunno, didn’t really care to ask.”

“ _Houston_?”

She mutters, losing interest, “I think it was that one.”

Houston. Herrera could’ve been lying to Laynie, covering his own ass. Or Laynie could be lying for him, or just clueless. But the mention of Houston hits too strong of a chord with Nacho. He knows that Fring has some ties in Houston, and that he goes there regularly.

“Did he say why?” Nacho pushes. 

Irritation grows in her eyes. “To talk to his boss or some shit. Jesus. I’m not his fucking parole officer.”

Nacho tilts his head. “His boss?”

“Yeah, his boss lives in Texas.” Her tone is demeaning. “He goes there, like, every month. Doesn’t come back for a few days. Leaves me a couple grams while he’s gone, brings me more.”

“When’s he coming back?” Nacho asks.

She taps her cigarette on the overflowing ashtray. “He was supposed to be back two days ago, but called and said something came up and he won’t be home ‘til Thursday.” She pauses, taking another drag. “I think it’s because that ass hat Dante.”

Nacho feels eager. “Dante was with him?” 

She glares at him. “Yeah.”

“What do they do there?”

She throws a hand up. “The fuck should I know? Didn’t you say you work with him?”

Nach reaches into his pocket, feeling for small rocks coated in plastic. He pulls out the clouded crystal, holding it up for her to see. She sits up straight, eyes going round. 

“Wanna think harder?” 

The gringa searches her cooked brain. “Look, I don’t know anything about it. All I know is that Ricky’s been going there for work the last few months. He brought Dante with him last time, and I guess they got in a huge fight about something. About work or some shit. I dunno.”

Nacho nods. “Ricky never told you what they fought about?”

“Ricky doesn’t tell me shit,” she mumbles. “Dante’s always been a bitch, though. He got mad at Ricky for giving me his crystal. Said they’d get in trouble. Anyways, apparently Dante had to _beg_ Ricky to come this time, I heard them on the phone, but that’s it.” She puts both her hands up, leaving the cigarette in her mouth. “I don’t know why, and honestly, I don’t wanna know.”

“And when he called you, that’s the last time you heard from him?”

She nods eagerly.

“You sure?” 

“ _Yes_ , I’m _sure_ ,” she sneers.

Nacho tosses the crystal to her. “Thanks.” 

He shuts the door behind him and makes his way back to his car. His theory of Herrera and Fuez cutting and running is getting weak, though the alternative may be much worse for the two. Whatever’s in Texas, it’s bad enough that they kept it from everyone else. If they’d been working for someone else, or worse, if they were _sapos—_

Calling Lalo should be his next step, but he can’t get Houston out of his head. It’s been too long since he’d heard from Fring or Victor, or even Mike, now with his two dealers running off to Houston, where he knows Fring has connections, it’s too much of a coincidence to ignore.

Nacho dials the number. No one answers. 

_“Escuchame,”_ he says into the voicemail. “Two of our guys are missing. I know Fring has something to do with it. They went to Houston a few days ago.” He adds something else, knowing it will get their attention. “Lalo’s getting suspicious. If there’s something I need to know—“

He sighs. Life was more simple when he didn’t. 

“Just... I can keep him off the trail. Call me back.”

As Nacho climbs into his car, something catches his eye.

The truck down the street’s still there, headlamps off. But someone’s inside, and he’s not sure if it’s paranoia or reality, but it looks like they’re watching him.


	9. Y Tuyo Será

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> I walk beside the still waters and they restore my soul  
> But I can't walk on the path of the right because I'm wrong  
> I walk beside the still waters and they restore my soul  
> But I know when I die my soul is damned
> 
> "Through the Valley" by Shawn James
> 
> (THIS CHAPTER HAS BEEN ALTERED FROM IT'S ORIGINAL PUBLISHING)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ALL FLASHBACKS ARE WRITTEN IN PAST TENSE, just so there's no confusion. ("Said" instead of "say")
> 
> TRANSLATIONS:
> 
> Nena - Colombian slang for a girlfriend, like "baby" or "babe" (if that's incorrect, blame my friend)  
> Mierdita - "little shit"

Everything has been so loud and fast up to this point, the silence is painful. Lying in the dark, the ghosts whispering and hissing in her mind, sleep is unable to take it’s hold. The bits and pieces are still jumbled, but slowly, she’s been putting them together, rearranging the memories and nightmares into coherent events. Her eyes refuse to stay shut, the darkness behind her lids welcomes the things she doesn’t want to remember. 

Heat. Flesh cooking heat. Like an oven. Smoke filling her lungs. 

Gunshots. Loud, harsh. Sharp. Stabbing her ears repeatedly.

Warm, thick liquid spilling on to her hands, and a broken voice muttering in her ears. _“Nena_ —?”

That one finally sends her sitting straight up in bed. Outside, the night has turned to day, almost in the blink of an eye, though she doesn’t feel the effects of sleep. Fresh, clean air moves through her lungs, trying to smother the memory of smoke. All her joints and muscles have stiffened through the hours, cracking and creaking as she climbs out of bed. 

The unease that had been growing in her stomach, ever since she woke up and saw Mike, is stronger than ever. A feeling she can’t ignore.

 _I’m not out._

Perhaps it’s been too long, she’d forgotten what freedom, _real_ freedom, feels like. How long had it been? Years, maybe. It’s impossible to tell, with the lack of seasons in that godforsaken place, no way of telling the weeks from the months. Only the days, and after dozens of those, counting them seemed pointless. Days where she thought each one would be her last, until she hoped that it would be. 

She had been telling the truth when the doctor asked her age, she didn’t know. Eighteen, twenty, twenty five, did it even matter? It was past what she had expected. Or wanted.

Or perhaps she’d romanticized freedom. Before it had meant returning to the past, which she now sees is impossible. And what kind of past had that been? 

Worthless. It’s why she didn’t tell Mike her real name. 

Maybe it’s both, but as the days stretch on in this place, this so-called haven, she begins to see the truth. Constant supervision and the threat of certain death should she leave. 

Not freedom. A new prison.

The first few days, she’d been weary of the old man, her savior, though she’s not sure if that's the appropriate label. Behind his emotionless, cold demeanor, she’s seen shreds of kindness. A few times, it’s almost made her forget that he’s the warden, keeping her “safe” until the big boss arrives. Keeping his distance, but also being vigilant, in case she tries to escape again. Only with Mike, he doesn’t try to stop her. 

About a mile outside of the village, there’s a fence, though she’s not sure what exactly it’s purpose is. The fields that expand beyond it are empty, no distinct crops or livestock, just seas of sage and grasses that go all the way to the mountains’ crests, unpaved roads weaving and winding with the land. Everyday since her arrival, she’s walked all the way, alone, only to stop at the fence. Mike doesn’t follow or mention her absence when she returns, exhausted and drenched in sweat. 

It’s like he expected her to come back. 

Her first trip to the fence, she had fully planned on leaving. The fence had been as far as she could go before she threw up. Then, she paused, staring off at the horizon, and feeling the shadow of something heavy touching the back of her head, a weight growing around her ankle. In her state, she’d be picked apart by buzzards in a day. 

So she turned back, like her guard knew she would. 

The next attempt was the same. And the next. 

Eventually, the journey became less about running away and more about experimenting. Seeing how far she could go before she was overcome with the desire to turn back. The first few times it was fear. Then weariness. Then habit. With each journey, muscle is starting to form on her calves and thighs, though her bones are still getting used to the locomotion.

Today, there’s no phantom gun to her head. No exhaustion or fear. She just stops, looping her legs through the wooden fence and taking a well deserved rest, knowing now what the fence means. 

_End of the line._

Nothing else out there for miles, just coyotes and snakes until the border.

Taking in a deep breath, she feels the energy coursing through her veins. The pain in her shoulder has lessened, her arm free of the sling, and her head all but out of stitches. She could do it today. Keep going, take the risk, taste the freedom. 

_Real_ freedom. 

But she doesn’t. Today she just sits alone, flies lapping up her sweat and Mike’s words dangling over her head. 

That’s when the rain begins. It starts off light, before quickly turning into a downpour, warm and thick, soaking into her new clothes and drenching her braided hair. She holds out her hand, extending her fingers to gather the droplets inside her palm. A small puddle forms, before she inclines her hand and lets it run down her forearm. 

The rain takes away the unease, and for a moment, she feels nothing.

Then it’s over. She sighs and stands up. She opts to not return to the ranch, choosing to go to the square instead. 

The village is quiet today, possibly because of the promise of more bad weather. A few farmers and merchants are undeterred, and they stare as she passes them, doing her best to keep her gaze downward. Mike insisted that no one here is dangerous, but it still took three days to even walk into town. Even now, she still is suspicious and avoids walking too close to anyone. 

The children run through the streets, chasing after one another, laughing and shrieking without a care in the world. A few of them have come to recognize her, and their smiles grow and their fingers point as they run past. Her mouth curls upward, though she wouldn’t call it a smile. Keeping her arms folded across her chest, she trudges through the mud, avoiding the suspicious glares of the adults who seem to know better, until she sees the fountain.

It stands out from everything else, almost like a paradox of architecture. Sharp terraces stacked on top of each other, sleek and modern, spilling water over all edges into the levels below. Smooth stones line the bottom. Once or twice, she’s been tempted to pluck one out, run her fingers across it, throw it over the fence and into the trees. The reverence that hangs over it stopped her. When she first found it, Mike was here. It was the only time she saw him outside the ranch. The two of them stood together in the silence, listening to the water bubble, her eyes running across the base until she saw the inscription. 

_Dedicado a Max_

She’s half hoping Mike is there today. His presence always keeps the gazes away from her. However, the square is empty, except for a single figure next to the fountain. 

A man stands alone, hands clasped together on top of an umbrella hilt, almost in a stance of prayer. His head bowed in reverence, observing the water as it cascades down the terraces. Despite previous rain and humidity, his appearance is immaculate. Not a single fabric is out of place. His shoulders move in rhythmic, controlled breaths. It’s all so familiar, and after she takes another step and sees the short, curly hair and silver rimmed glasses, she’s paralyzed by recognition. 

Nothing in his demeanor has changed since she entered the empty square. His vigil is unbroken, still as a statue. She almost questions if he’s real. Ghosts have appeared before, usually to frighten and torment her, but not this one. This one only causes her blood to boil. 

“Your health has improved.” 

His smooth, accented voice snaps her out of paralysis. She knows she’s standing in Gustavo Fring’s presence, Mike’s employer. The mysterious, generous benefactor of the whole village. Muscle memory tells her to run, but she doesn’t. 

“Sorry to disappoint you,” she growls. 

His eyebrows raise, acknowledging her remembrance of him, but he doesn’t break his gaze. “On the contrary, this is good news to me.”

Fire burns in her chest, her tight fists shaking as she seethes with rage. The pain in her shoulder reignites as she takes three long, harsh breaths. “Your money’s gone, so just get it over with. Just... Skip to the part where you kill me.”

The words spill out with emotion, and it’s enough to get him to look at her with black, indifferent eyes.

“I understand what you must think of me—”

She cuts him off weakly. “No, I don’t think you do.”

“I am not here to convince you otherwise.” The authority in his tone overpowers her words. “Or ask forgiveness for our previous interaction. You must understand, it was not ideal—“

She steps forward, tears brimming. _“Ideal?”_

“—for me,” Fring continues, maintaining a business-like cadence. “Your circumstances were unfortunate, to say the least. I personally avoid such practices in my line of work. But understand, there was nothing to be done. I apologize for my lack of initiative, but I do not expect you to accept it.” 

Her jaw quivers, holding back her anger.

The Chilean turns towards her, smoothing out his suit jacket with one hand. “I hope that my actions have been sufficient, in showing you that my intentions are in your best interest.” He takes a breath, tilting his head slightly. “And despite _your_ actions in El Malpais, I have no intention of harming you.”

She bites her tongue. 

Fring exhales, giving her an empty smile. “You do not believe me.”

Her folded arms move to shield her stomach. “Sorry. I don’t have a good track record with people like you.”

***

 _“Nena,_ are you awake?”

Only two people called her _Nena._

It wasn’t her given name. That was lost to her, a privilege she no longer deserved. Memories of her mother and abuelita, instances that feel like lifetimes ago, are filled with Spanish colloquialisms and pet names, each enough to bring tears to her eyes, but none were _nena._ _Nena_ wasn’t a name, but a title, and she’s still uncertain of what it means. The others called her different things - _puta, perrita, mierdita,_ to name a few _-_ but those she knew. Those were meant to demean her. Depending on the speaker, the tone of voice suggested that _nena_ was possessive, like a name given to a show dog, or it was casual, like referring to someone as _primo_ when the name escapes you. 

She had heard the footsteps approaching her room, long before the voice spoke. The absence of whistling or humming was an indication as to _how_ she was going to be addressed. Even after pausing outside the hatch, the visitor waited several moments, hesitating to disturb her, like they always did. She didn’t move until they spoke, their soft, soothing voice echoing off the barren walls. Metal rattled on the cement floor as she stood up off her cot, walking into the middle of the small room.

Adding a knock to the door over the hatch, the visitor repeated, a little more clearly, _“Nena, estas despierta_ _?”_

Raul. _“Si.”_

With a slam of wood and creek of metal, the hatch to the cellar opened, casting more light onto the stairway down to her room. It wasn’t much for comfort, the cold, cement floor crumbling and reeking of alcohol and sweat. A single light fixture on the ceiling ran on a timer, turning off to signify night and on for day, covered in a cage to keep her from breaking the bulb. She still had the scar on her hand. 

A set of legs descended the stairs, pausing halfway to take a seat. Now at her level, she could see the small, unimposing frame of Raul. Even with his slim build and short stature, he had to duck his head down to look at her. For a few moments, he crouches on the staircase, a set of keys clinking in his fidgeting hands. 

“How are you feeling?” he asked, his voice heavily accented. _“Buena?”_

She nodded, croaking, _“Si, buena.”_

His head bobbed up and down, waiting for a few more moments. _“Dormiste bien?”_

Shuffling on her feet, she mumbled, “Yeah, I guess.”

 _“Tienes hambre?”_ he asked. _“Sed?”_

Again, she nodded. Food and water had been given by the _other_ guy, though she wasn’t sure when that was. It was definitely before the punishment started, before she was banished down into the hole once more. She had slept twice since then, once because she was exhausted, and the other because she was apathetic. No food had been given. Time was only measured by sleep and food, but she figured being denied the latter was part of her punishment.

“Well, let me take you inside,” he said. “Get you something to eat. _Hace mucho calor aquí._ ”

“... _D_ _onde Vaas?”_ she asked nervously. 

The question gave him pause. _“Se fue a Tijuana.”_

Her hands start to shake. “W-why?”

Raul shrugged, standing up off the stairs and climbing down further into her space. “ _Una emergencia._ Something with his father. It was very last minute. Only told me about it. Asked me to take care of you, until he gets back.”

The statement caused her heart to pound. Vaas was her only constant, and despite everything he was, he was the only thing that soothed her. No one else touched her when Vaas was around. No one was allowed to, unless he said so. That alone made her depend on him, and feel more vulnerable when he was gone. Maybe she’d really messed up this time. Maybe he knew what happens when he leaves. Maybe that’s her punishment.

“When’s he coming back?” she asks, her voice barely above a whisper.

 _“No se,”_ he answered quickly, avoiding her gaze as he approached. 

Pressing was futile, as was asking to be left alone. Vaas trusted Raul more than anyone, and she’d be lying if she didn’t prefer Vaas when Raul was around. Both of them were much more palatable together. Still, there was something off putting about his demeanor. Anxiety was steaming off him, and his hands were trembling when he searched for the correct key. 

Something’s wrong with him, she just wasn’t sure what. 

She stepped back, extending her left leg. He knelt down, unlocking the chain from her ankle, and lingering. Much to her discomfort, his breath tickled her skin, his brown eyes looked her calf up and down, before gently stroking it. The touch, the one she’s felt a million times and grown to accept, is laden with distress and tension.

_“Vamonos.”_

The instant relief from the heat as she emerged from the oven sent a shudder throughout her body. Raul led the way across the compound, which looked more like a five star resort than a heavily armed stronghold. The backyard alone looked at least five acres long, especially with a small lake dancing behind a gazebo. Her eyes traveled up the walls that surrounded her, the barbed wire breaking the illusion that this place was a home. Cameras watched them like small, black eyes, though that day, they were lacking the red light near the top corner. She avoided the gazes of the two armed men who watched the backyard, one large and broad and the other tall and thin, whom she had named Fatfuck and Skinnyshit in her mind, respectively. 

She felt Fatfuck’s eyes on them the whole time. Skinnyshit, who was much younger, never bothered to take his attention away from the gaming system in his hand. 

Raul brought her inside, seating her at the bar top in the kitchen. Something only he did. The interior decorating was a hodgepodge of different styles, from mid-century modern, to nautical, to southwestern suburbia. Each piece more expensive than the last, like a desperate attempt to express wealth. Or an attempt to spend a never ending stream of cash, and no knowledge of how to do so. She detested it, and often fantasized about setting the whole place on fire, watching the kitschy wallpaper shrivel up into flames. 

Immediately he turned his back to her, grumbling something to himself as he searched the cabinets. He moved more at ease, knowing that Vaas was absent. He was always on edge around that man, but mostly for everyone else’s sake.

“Bottom left cupboard,” she muttered. 

Raul opens it, pulling out a skillet. _“Gracies.”_

He lit the stove and cracked two eggs. The silence made Raul feel uncomfortable. He was always uncertain how to speak to her, knowing that casualness was inappropriate, but sternness felt wrong. “So... It’s just us for today. I hope that’s okay with you.”

“Yeah...” She looked down at her lap. 

Raul fidgeted again behind the island that separated them. He let the eggs sizzle on the skillet, before peeling the skin off an avocado. His mind is searching for the right words. 

“ _Escuchame._ With Vaas gone, there’s... there’s something that I have to do.”

Her whole body goes rigid.

“That _we_ need to do.” He splits the fruit in half, removing the pit with his thumb. “It’s nothing like what you’re used to, I promise. But it’s... It’s _very_ important that you’re there.”

He trailed off, refocusing on the knife to prevent himself from cutting his finger as he diced a tomato. The girl watched intently, imagining the blade slicing through his finger, spilling his blood all over the yellow countertop, before shaking the thought away. 

“I can’t tell you here,” he said, so softly that she almost didn’t hear him. “And no one can know about it. _Especially_ Vaas. Got it?”

Confused, and slightly terrified, she nodded. There’s nothing else to do.

He sighed, somewhat relieved. “Okay. _Bueno._ It’s a long drive, so I’ll need you to get cleaned up and look less...”

He trailed off again, looking her up and down. 

“You know.”

“Okay,” she whispers. 

The omelette now completed, he slid the plate towards her, giving her a plastic fork. “Eat up. It’ll be a long day.”

***

Somehow, her words haven’t insulted him. 

“Killing you now would be a waste.” The normalcy in Fring’s timbre makes her spine tingle. “I’ve suffered bigger losses than your theft. And I will in the future. It is the nature of this business. Besides—“ he looks around at the square, barely moving his head “—I do not bring people here with the intention of killing them.”

Fring lets his words sink in. The two stand together in the square, a few people avoiding the center as the two mysterious figures converse in a foreign language. 

“Mike said you brought him here before,” she says. “Gave him a choice.”

“The same choice I am offering to you.” 

She pauses. “You want me to _work_ for you.”

“It is a small price to pay,” Fring explains, adjusting his grip on the umbrella. “One I do not offer to everyone, especially those who cost me valuable resources. You will be given security, a new life, a new beginning. All things you are in dire need of, and cannot get anywhere else.”

She contemplates this for mere seconds. “No.”

The quickness in her answer amuses him. “I urge you to reconsider.”

“Okay,” she says. “ _Fuck_ no. Why would I—?”

“Vaas Amarante is my enemy, as much as he is yours.”

“You want me, why?” she demands, her words spewing out faster than she can stop them. “As leverage? As a ‘fuck you’ to that... That _psychopath_? No, no. I can’t - I _won’t_ . Whatever this _thing_ is, that you have against Vaas—“

“You’re not a trophy,” Fring says clearly. “I’d wager you know him more than anyone else. More than Rosa Negra, more than Rafa, more than Raul Narvaez—“

The last name makes her heart stop, feeling warm liquid on her hands.

Fring continues, “—And as you’ve proven, he knows things about me that are a threat to everything I’m trying to accomplish. He told you where that dead drop was, though I’m not sure how he knew.”

“Yeah, he did,” she says, her voice more quiet. “He told me a lot of things. I dunno why.” 

That was a lie.

“Why would I not want you, then?”

“What’s stopping me from going to the police?” she asks with a small voice. “Even if I go with you, how can you know that I won’t turn and rat?”

Fring smiles again. “You already had the opportunity to involve the police, and yet, you did not. You do not want justice against Vaas Amarante. Or even freedom.” He relishes in her reaction to his words. “You want something else. Something I understand.”

The fountain trickles above the silence. Her eyes are drawn back to the name on the side, as are his. He meditates on the name, before looking back at her, a darkness in his countenance.

“You want revenge. And not just for yourself.”

The girl looks down at the inscription on the fountain. 

Movement catches her eye. Mike has joined them in the square, though she’s not sure when he arrived. There’s a heaviness in his blue eyes as he looks on at the pair, hands in his pockets.

The girl turns back to Fring. “When do we start?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter was a bitch. Several different versions were written, mostly because I was worried about how similar of a vibe it was giving off to El Camino, but anything else just seemed wrong. I promise, though, it doesn't go the same route as the Todd flashbacks do. I'm also considering making this an actual story, free from the influence of the Breaking Bad universe, and with several plot changes. I'm pretty sure this chapter gave me carpel tunnel. And yes, Vaas is named after Michael Mando's character in Far Cry 3.


	10. Los Muertos No Mienten

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Y me resignare per tu pagaras lo que has hecho de mi  
> (And I will resign myself but you will pay for what you made of me)
> 
> "Sigue Feliz" by Alonso y Bernardo

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I. HAVE. RETURNED.
> 
> Translations: 
> 
> El Jefe - slang for "the boss"; used frequently at my job  
> Tengo una cruda marca llorarás - slang for "I have a hangover" ; again if this is wrong, blame my friend  
> Espera - "wait"  
> Tal vez - "it might be"  
> El cáncer finalmente consiguió al cabrón viejo - the cancer finally got the old bastard  
> Es una pena - "it's a shame"  
> Alguien adentro? - "is someone inside?"  
> No se quien es - "I don't know who it is"  
> Hicieron esto? - "Did they do this?"  
> Ahí está - "there it is"

Lalo’s abnormally quiet today. His arrival to the restaurant is usually loud, bombastic, and uncomfortably high spirited, usually accompanied by whistling and a pat on the back to Nacho. Today, the only thing that announces _el Jefe’s_ arrival is the swing of the door. Lalo saunters in, his typically cheery demeanor absent, replaced by pensive, emotionless rumination. Rather than hiding away in the kitchen, Lalo sits in the corner, legs propped on the table as Nacho collects payments. No humming or singing or making playful jabs at the dealers to establish some psychological dominance. He just sits there, staring up at the ceiling, wheels turning in his mind with the fans.

Nacho despises Lalo’s constant chatter, but his silence is more disconcerting. What’s worse, _el Jefe_ hadn’t even mentioned Ricardo or Dante once. 

Not since Nacho reported his findings from Ricardo’s sister, excluding the part about Houston, of course. Lalo had taken the news relatively well, considering there’s proof that his own men were double crossing him. No one else knows, not even Domingo, who Nacho threatened with a single look when he attempted to bring it up the night before. Lalo didn’t mention it, didn’t ask for a follow up, but he was still Lalo.

Until today. 

Domingo collects while Nacho supervises. The younger _hombre_ senses Nacho’s anxiety, fidgets the whole time, fumbles over his words, but not once does he look at Nacho or Lalo. Just keeps his head forward. 

At some point, he asks, “Rough night?”

Nacho glances at Lalo, the direct sunlight intensifying the pounding in his skull. _“Tengo una cruda marca llorarás.”_

Domingo exhales quickly out of his nose. Nacho hasn’t had a hangover since he was a teenager, but last night, he needed the extra help to sleep. Victor had finally messaged him. No phone call, or face to face, just a message. 

_“Not us. Keep Lalo busy.”_

Then a follow up. _“Will talk. Wait for time.”_

Vague, but the wording was confirmation that Fring knows about Dante and Ricardo. Or worse, he’s involved. Either way, Gustavo Fring definitely knows something.

And now Nacho’s certain Lalo does, too. 

When the last dealer leaves, Nacho waits with bated breath for something, anything from Lalo. Just silence, as the mariachi music plays in the empty restaurant. 

Domingo hands the payments to Nacho, not meeting his eyes. _“Hasta luego.”_

The two of them await the usual “goodbye” from Lalo, but it never comes. Domingo awkwardly exits the restaurant, picking up speed once he’s outside. Nacho watches as his car drives off. With trembling hands, Nacho gathers the payments, placing them into an envelope and rising to his feet. 

Nacho mutters. “See ya’.”

_“Espera un minuto.”_

His heart stops, his breath caught in his throat. When he turns, Lalo is still pensively staring upwards, his hands resting in his lap. After several long, painful moments, his head swivels to Nacho. 

The chilling, mustachioed smile returns. “Let’s go for a drive.”

With a reawakened energy, Lalo leaps onto his feet, striding past Nacho towards the door. Nonchalantly, he takes the money, sliding the envelope into his pocket. 

_“Qué es?”_ Nacho asks, trying to hide his nervous energy. 

“Something good. _Vamanos.”_

Obediently, Nacho follows _el Jefe_ to his car outside, his palms growing sweatier with each step. His eyes sweep the street before ducking into the driver’s seat. 

As they leave the city limits and delve deeper into the desert, Nacho’s hands start to shake. He grips the steering wheel tightly, focusing his eyes on the road ahead and taking deep, controlled breaths. Sweat drips down his forehead, though it could be passed off as the heat. 

Just like at the restaurant, Lalo is silent for the drive. Besides the occasional guidance he gives the younger man, he sits motionless and wordless, not even singing along to the radio that serenades their trip. Nacho repeatedly glimpses at Lalo, searching for the bulge of a weapon. With his comfortable position and relaxed posture, it’s safe to assume he’s unarmed. However, this doesn’t ease the growing dread in his stomach. He knows, probably more than most, that Lalo doesn’t need a gun.

And they’re getting further and further into nowhere. 

_He knows._ The thought runs back and forth in his mind. _You’re fucked. I don’t know what he knows, but he knows. Lalo_ always _knows._

Again, he glances at the man to his right, trying to keep his tone as flat and relaxed as possible. “You haven’t told me where we’re going.”

Like a switch, he’s back to his usual self. 

“Eh, it might be nothing,” he shrugs. “One of the drivers found it.”

 _“Son Ricardo y Dante?”_ he presses.

Lalo smirks. _“No se. Tal vez.”_

Another question, one he knows Gustavo Fring would want to ask, and one he’s desperate to know the answer to. “Have you told Tuco?”

 _“Diablos, no,”_ Lalo chuckles. “ _Mi primo_ would lose his shit.”

“What about Don Hector?”

His face darkens slightly, but he keeps his lighthearted tone. “Nah. Hector’s got too much to worry about right now.” He pauses, noting Nacho’s confusion. “Didn’t you hear? Don Rafa is dead.”

Nacho swallows hard. _“Don Rafa_ _está muerto?”_

 _“Sí. El cáncer finalmente consiguió al cabrón viejo._ Real shame. Don Rafa was a good man. Honest man. I liked him. Hector did, too.” He adds, with a laugh, “If Hector can like anybody.”

“Who’s taking over Rosa Negra?”

Lalo sighs. “ _Ese es el problema, mi amigo._ _Don Eladio, Don Juan, y Hector,_ they worry that it will be the son, Vaas.”

Nacho’s only knew of him by reputation, which can be greatly exaggerated, especially in their world. But not Vaas Amarante. Not one of his shipments have been attacked or seized in the past ten years, except for one. None of his men get caught, and if they do, they’re released within a day or two. Somehow they keep smuggling their product through El Paso, despite the Cartel’s best efforts to keep him in his own territory. Hector hasn’t figured out how he does it, if someone’s in his pocket, or he’s just that good. 

Everyone in Juarez knows of Tuco’s erratic, unstable behavior when he’s using. Vaas is just as insane, maybe more. But definitely smart, and he doesn’t need meth or coke to fly off the handle. Isn’t afraid of killing anybody, even those deemed off limits. Just last year he flayed a DEA agent, sent the tongue to the police in Los Angeles. 

“I doubt anyone will go for that,” Nacho remarks. “Last I checked, Rosa Negra hates him as much as we do. He causes too many problems within the brotherhood. Only put up with him because of Rafa.”

“It might not matter. People are jumping ship, as they say. Even his second in command Raul is missing.” Lalo chuckles darkly. “Or Vaas did away with him. _Es una pena_.” 

“When did all this happen?” 

Lalo pauses, his forehead creasing. “Two weeks ago...”

Nacho doesn’t press further. There’s a darkness in Lalo’s eyes as he looks off at nothing. Taking in a deep breath, Nacho returns to strangling the steering wheel, his cellphone in his pocket growing heavier and heavier. The car winds through the back roads south of Mescalero, Lalo only speaking to offer guidance, until suddenly, he bursts out loudly, _“Ahí está!”_

The shift in energy from the man reignites his anxiety. 

“Stop here,” Lalo orders. 

_“Qué es?”_ he asks nervously.

He doesn’t respond, just gawks at the spot with a smile on his face. Nacho pulls the car off to the side of the road. There’s no cover to be seen, leaving them exposed in the middle of the desert. Nacho follows Lalo closely, walking away from the road, until all of the sudden, the ground drops about ten feet into a dry river bed, and the two of them stare at the image below. 

The shell of a Crown Victoria is flipped onto the passenger side, only the ravine wall prevents it from completely toppling. Metal and rubber all but disintegrated, the flames that consumed it have long died down; days ago, judging by the layer of dust that now covers it. Black and charred, whatever color it used to be is gone, but the make and model doesn’t match Herrera or Fuez’s. 

“Driver found it yesterday,” Lalo states. 

_“Cómo?”_ Nacho mutters under his breath.

The man smiles at him. “ _Te seguiré abajo.”_

It’s a long way down. Dirt and sand make Nacho’s descent a slippery one. He braces himself all the way, scuffing up his hand that works to keep him stable. 

Upon closer inspection, the vehicle had only been there for a few days. The metal frame shows no signs of rust, only flames, a faint smell of gasoline among the stench of burnt rubber. The windows had been blown out, possibly when the gas tank ignited. Shattered glass is scattered all around the perimeter. Other than the fire damage, the car seems to be in decent shape, for one that took a nosedive into a ravine. 

_“Alguien adentro?”_ Lalo calls from above, almost playfully. He’s yet to join him down in the ravine. 

Nacho sighs, leaning down towards the blown out windshield.

He’s not surprised to see a corpse, though he recoils, mostly from the smell. Nacho’s seen his fair share of dead bodies, even created a few himself, but they still resemble people. Not this one. The driver, whoever he was, is burnt to a crisp, not a single piece of flesh edible enough for the buzzards. The charred seat belt had lost the war against gravity, and the body lies folded against the opposite end of the car. Limbs and face contorted into a state of permanent terror. 

Other than that, the Crown Victoria is empty. Nacho is overwhelmed with relief.

In a cloud of dust, Lalo appears, undeterred by the stench of burnt flesh. 

_“Son ellos?”_

“It’s not their car. No other bodies. _No se quien es.”_

Lalo squats next to him, putting his face within inches of the carcass. Much to Nacho’s disgust, Lalo grips the jaw bone, the flesh crackling like tinfoil as he forces the head from side to side. Nacho grimaces, expecting it to pop off.

 _“Es un gringo?”_ Lalo asks.

Nacho scoffs. It’s unclear if it’s a man or a woman, much less a gringo or hermano. He had been worried that this was Dante or Ricardo. Finding them dead would mean more lies for Lalo, and covering Fring’s tracks. At least now, he can be honest. _“No se._ Probably just some poor bastard who took a bad turn.”

Lalo sniffs, pulling himself out from the car. “No, they were shot.”

The relief immediately vanishes. “What?” 

“Yeah! _Aquí.”_

Stooping down once more, Lalo jabs his finger at the corpse’s skull. Nacho gets on his knees, leaning in closer. At the front of the skull, there’s a small hole, barely noticeable with all the fire damage. When he tilts the head, he sees the larger hole in the temple, where someone attempted to dig something out. 

He picks himself up, sighing in frustration. Something catches his eye. Amongst the glass shards that glistens in the sunlight, he sees pieces of red and blue. When he peers at the roof of the car, he sees it. 

Siren lights.

_“Es una policía.”_

_“Una policía?”_ Lalo repeats. _“Aquí?”_

The pounding in his chest has returned. A State Trooper had gone missing. It had been all over the news. Lalo had insisted to Don Eladio that it wasn’t them. The Salamancas aren’t stupid enough to go after cops. Nacho had hoped the two were unrelated, but now, he can’t rationalize it. That was two weeks ago, the same time Dante and Ricardo disappeared.

_Same the time Raul Narvaez disappeared._

“What do you think, _amigo_ ?” Lalo asks, interrupting his thoughts. “ _Hicieron esto?”_

 _“No se.”_ Nacho shakes his head. The trembling in his fingers has returned. He digs them into his palms. “Dante and Ricardo wouldn’t kill a cop. They’re not stupid.”

He can tell just by the look in his eye that Lalo is putting the pieces together. Just like he was. Too many coincidences.

 _“Si. Ellos no,”_ Lalo says. “This was someone else.”

Nacho looks at Lalo. _“Quién?”_

Lalo smiles at him, but there’s no light in his eyes. They’re completely dead.

“I wonder what Marco and Leonel are up to.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for your patience, guys. Feeling a lot better and I'm glad to be back!


	11. Fortunate Son

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> And all our times together is tearing me apart  
> I can't hold you tomorrow but I hold you in my heart
> 
> "Pieces of the People We Love" by the Rapture

There’s a violent scraping sound that fills the space. One item carving against another, the friction leaving shavings and splinters across the white surface. A purple saw working its way between the guidelines, back and forth. Back and forth. Wax against wood, with just a thin layer of paper between them.

The intensity with which Kaylee is staring at her blank canvas rivals that of a professional. Each stroke of the crayon uses her whole arm as she gives life and color to the black scribbles on her paper, filing the little tool down to the plastic casing. Her tongue sticks out between clenched teeth, eyes locked on what’s beneath her, trying her best - and failing - to keep the purple crayon from crossing the outline of a figure on her paper.

Mike allows a smile to grow on his face. Muscles he hasn’t used in a while. “Almost done?”

His granddaughter stifles a laugh. “ _No_.”

Playfully, Mike attempts to break the invisible barrier between them, the one Kaylee believes to be blocking his view of her artwork. Up to this point, he’s obeyed the law made by his granddaughter, despite his ability to easily see over her tiny shoulder. When he’s caught trespassing, she shoves at him with barely enough force to register a touch. Mike acts as if she threw him out of his chair.

“I’m not done, Pop-Pop!” she giggles.

“Just a peak,” he says, craning his neck. 

She shoves him again. “ _No,_ not yet!”

“Okay, okay,” he chuckles. He honors her wishes, and keeps his eyes on his own drawing. Mike’s no artist, but he’s created a decent depiction of a car, and reaches to grab a new color for the exterior. Once that’s done, he pulls the lime green out from the 64 colors. 

_“_ Done!” she announces, before proudly displaying her picture. 

Purple fills in the large, bulbous area that should be a woman’s torso. Brown streaks resembling hair follicles cover the head, which has a crooked, uneven smile. On top of her head is a three pointed object colored in with yellows and greens. A large mash of rectangles and triangles surround her, along with spikey, dark green spires. A long, gray stick is in the spiky hand, red dripping from the end. It’s the most beautiful thing he’s ever seen. 

“Is that your mom?” he asks proudly. 

“ _No._ ” The vowel goes on forever. “It’s a princess!”

“Oh, wait. I see it now.” He sarcastically tilts his head up, staring down the bridge of his nose through invisible glasses. “There’s the castle, some trees, and...” He points to a shriveled, orange creature in the corner. “And that’s the dragon, right?”

“Yeah!” she beams. “The prince took too long, so she had to kill the dragon all by herself.”

Mike nods, noting the creature is on its back with Xs over the eyes. “Does he ever come?”

As with most of Kaylee’s artwork that adorns his and Stacey’s refrigerators, there’s a story that comes with it, ranging from simple and classic to elaborate and feverish. There was someone else he knew that did the same. 

Kaylee takes a deep breath before weaving her tale. “Yeah, he gets there. It just takes a _long_ time. He got turned into a lizard by an evil space wizard, after tricking him into finding buried treasure.”

“Like pirate treasure?”

“No, like the giant golden box,” she says simply. “From that movie Daddy liked. The bad guys with the funny voices. The one that melts your face off.” She runs her fingers down her cheeks, sticking out her tongue. “The wizard opened it and his face melted off. And the prince got away.” 

Just the word _Daddy_ sends a pin prick into Mike’s heart. He looks away. “Don’t tell your mom you’ve seen that movie.”

“I won’t!” she chirps. “Anyways, then the princess makes him human, and they live happily ever after and kiss and stuff, and the box just keeps melting faces off.” She lays the paper down on the table. “What did you draw, Pop-Pop?”

Mike picks up his sketch of a car. Something tightens in his throat. 

He hadn’t realized he colored it red, or drawn a cactus next to it. His hands shake as he imagines it careening down a dirt road, slamming into a ravine after the tires blow out. 

_“Dad, something happened—”_

Mike looks back up at the person across the table, blinking and just missing the image behind her. A face and figure he remembers fondly, when it was warm and youthful and full of life, now cold and pale, blood streaming down their skull. As soon as it appears, it vanishes, and Mike’s left with trembling fingers, the air sucked out of his lungs. 

There’s a click as the lock from the front door disengages. The sound frees Mike from his trance, jolting him back into the present.

A comforting voice comes through. “I’m home!”

“We’re in here,” he shouts faintly.

Stacey walks in, her exhausted, work worn face dissolving into delight at the sight in the kitchen. Kaylee shrieks with joy, leaping out of the chair and charging at her mother. His daughter-in-law stumbles backwards as Kaylee wraps her arms around her waist, a to-go back swaying dangerously in Stacey’s hand. 

“Pop-Pop got me new crayons,” she reports. 

His daughter-in-law responds, voice full of exaggerated disbelief. _“Really?”_

“64 count,” Mike tells her. “She’ll be the envy of her entire class. We even managed to finish her homework.”

Kaylee releases her mother’s waist. “Fractions.”

“Oh, thank God. I was terrible at those.” She locks eyes with Mike, before tapping Kaylee on the back. “Go wash up for dinner, Sweetie.”

The little girl runs off. 

Stacey drops the to-go bag on the table, Mike catching a whiff of Mexican spices and chicken grease. She unloads the rest of her things and asks, “How was the conference?”

“Enlightening,” he responds blandly.

“Really?” she huffs, folding her arms across her scrubbed chest and leaning against the wall. “You look exhausted. How late did you get back last night?”

Mike stands, his bones creaking louder than usual. He slides his picture underneath Kaylee’s. “Not too late. I need to let you know, they’re increasing my hours on the weekends. I’m not sure how yet. I’ll still be able to watch her this Sunday morning -”

A frown grows on her face.

He sighs. “It’s fine, Stace.”

“First they make you drive to Houston for two weeks,” she says. “Now they’re increasing your hours?”

“It’s managerial,” Mike lies so convincingly. “It’s a good thing.”

“They’ve been running you ragged for months, Mike,” she asserts. “Don’t they have, like, younger employees who could do all these late hours and business trips?”

Mike pretends to be insulted. “I’m as spry as ever, thank you.”

Stacey rolls her eyes. “You know what I mean, Mike. It just seems like a lot of extra stress that you shouldn’t have.”

 _You have no idea,_ Mike thinks. His phone vibrates in his pocket, but he ignores it.

She takes a deep breath. “I appreciate everything you’ve done. Really. Honestly, I don’t know what I would do without you. And that’s why I need you _here._ The money is great, and I can’t thank you enough, but we’re doing fine now. I got the promotion, and we’re saving more. What Kaylee needs, what _we_ need, is just for you to be a part of our lives.”

Kaylee reenters the room, and the two of them snap back into their cheerful casualness.

“It’s only temporary, Stace,” he says. “I’m just training a new hire. As soon as they get their legs, I’ll be able to cut back my hours, be here more.” He glances at Kaylee, who’s pulling the paper plates out of the cabinet. “Believe me, this is where I’d rather be.”

Stacey still looks unsure.

“I know my limits now,” he says. “It won’t be like last time.”

She sighs. “Okay. At least stay for dinner? I got enough.”

Mike stares at the bag on the table, brandishing the two cartoon chickens. “I wish I could, but I have to go. Training starts tonight.”

“You’re leaving?” his granddaughter asks.

“Yeah, Sweetheart, I’m sorry,” Mike says, pulling her into an embrace. “I’ll be here tomorrow when you get off school, okay?”

“Promise?” Kaylee presses.

Mike looks at his daughter-in-law. “Promise.”

***

Mike stepped out of his car, the headlights illuminating the dark trees of Fairmount Park. The hot, sticky humidity of summer in Philadelphia lingered, even at that hour, causing sweat to drip on the back of his neck. The stolen Camaro had slid to a halt, the fender propped up against the curb. Mike took a few visual sweeps of his surroundings, confirming the lack of witnesses, before stomping up to the vehicle, not bothering to brandish his badge or weapon or even announce his presence to the thieves. He was in his own vehicle, after all, dressed in civvies and supposedly off duty. The stolen car had only slowed upon recognition of who was following. Fists tight and teeth clenched, it was taking all his strength to not let smoke shoot out of his ears.

The passenger door opened as his reflection appeared on the side view mirrors. A gangly, baby faced eighteen year old boy stepped out, his thick, dark blond hair flopping over his eyes. The color drained from his face when his eyes met Mike’s, his hands flying up defensively.

“Dad, wait—!”

Ignoring his son, Mike threw open the driver door, latching onto the denim collar of a jacket as a voice, one deep in tone but young, exclaimed in terror. Mike easily yanked Anthony Styles, an eighteen year old honor student, out of the car. Female squeals erupted in the backseat, two small bodies cowering against the opposite window. Styles stumbled backwards, trying to regain his footing as a furious yet restrained Mike squared him up. 

There was no smell of alcohol. Or marijuana. The kid’s pupils were the proper size, and there was no redness around his lids.

“Are you on anything?” Mike demanded flatly. 

“Dad—“

Styles shook his head aggressively. “N-no, sir—“

“Drunk?” he presses, inches away from the kid’s face. 

He shook his head again. “No, sir. I swear.”

“So you’re just a sober ignoramus, then?” 

Again, Matty tried to intervene, touching Mike’s shoulder. “Dad, stop it—”

Mike shot a look at his son, who immediately retracted into his jacket. 

“Get in the car,” Mike said sternly. 

The two girls in the backseat had emerged. Mike recognized one of them as the girl Matty had taken to prom. Little redheaded thing with round, blue eyes and freckles, who’s name he couldn’t remember. They cowered behind Anthony Styles, who was forming a reluctant wall between them and the seething cop. 

“It wasn’t his idea, Mr. Ehrmantraut,” he admits.

“It’s my neighbor’s car,” said the brunette girl, the one Mike didn’t know. “I babysit for them. We were going to bring it back -”

Freckles wailed, “Oh, God. I can’t go to jail. I can’t—“

“Shut up, all of you.”

The terror in their eyes was overflowing. The brunette girl’s eyes filled with tears as she held back short, sharp breaths. A car drove by, not slowing down, and Mike waited for them to disappear around the corner before lowering his voice.

“No one is going to jail,” Mike growled. 

There was a collective sigh between them all, except for Matty. He waited, jaw locked in confusion. 

“Now, here’s what you three are going to do,” he began, rummaging through his pocket and taking out a few dollars. “You’re going to walk to that convenience store down the block. You’re going to call a cab, have them take you home.” He shoved the money into Styles’ hand. “You’re going to tell no one, and I mean _no one,_ about this. Not your parents. Not your friends at school. You got it?”

The boy nods, grabbing the brunette girl’s hand and leading the two of them down the street. 

Matty steps towards his father. “Dad—“

“Didn’t I say to get your ass in the car?”

***

A bright, neon beacon reading “Cr-ssro-ds Mot-l” hangs above the L shaped structure. The missing letters had been absent for months, but the owner has never bothered to repair them. Numerous vacancies are being advertised, though most cars drive on, and rightfully so. To say the motel is rundown would be generous. It’s two stories stand rusted and rotting from years and years of debaucherous patrons and hygienic neglect. 

It hadn’t been Mike’s first choice, but Victor assured him it was out of Salamanca territory and avoided by all beat cops, on account of the smell, and the fact that it’s very rarely used for it’s only purpose; blue collar men and their sex workers or young teenagers wanting to get high. Mike had only conceded when he discovered that the place was completely open - at the time - and he could easily track new guests. 

When he pulls into the parking lot, however, he discovers some vacancies have been filled. Only four cars are there; one near the lobby, which he assumes belongs to the night manager, two near a group of kids nesting on the stairwell, and another parked in the middle of the short part of the L. Mike gets out of his car, pushing through the group of kids to get to the room at the end of the row. Three boys, all in their late teens or early twenties, all dressed in oversized, colorful clothes with beanies covering their heads. The smoke that surrounds them comes from cigarettes, though Mike can still smell the low grade marijuana wafting off their sweatshirts. 

One of them, the shortest and definitely the whitest, backs into Mike, coughing and barking, “Eh, yo, watch it, gramps!” 

Mike rolls his eyes and makes his way down the line of rooms on the second floor. The kids watch him the entire time, barely trying to keep their comments about Mike quiet. When he arrives at the second to last door, he knocks three times, pauses, and then does two more. He waits for a few moments, but nothing happens. 

He does it again, with the same result. Mike moves to the next room, the final one in the row, and does the knock again. This time, he hears large, heavy footsteps approaching from the other side. For obvious reasons, Gustavo Fring’s involvement has to be minimal as long as she’s in New Mexico for the first little while, so he couldn’t provide security. Since the Salamanca’s don’t know about her, Mike assumes the discretion is for her former captor. 

Lucky for Mike, he knows a guy, who knows a Huell. 

Huell Babinaux, a massive mountain of a man, answers the door. 

“Oh, thank God,” he exclaims, in a voice that doesn’t match his size. 

“I told you to stay next door,” Mike growls. The sight angers Mike. He knows the nature of the girl’s previous situation. Being in a room with a strange man, especially one as intimidating as Huell, ought to terrify her. “Unless there’s an emergency.”

Huell allows him some room through the doorway. “Brother, if you don’t get your ass in here—“

Mike steals one more look at the kids before stepping inside. The godawful, tacky bedsheets are untouched, though there is an indentation left by Huell. A loud, obnoxious sitcom blares through the weak TV speakers. A plastic bag full of miscellaneous items sits on the dresser, next to a sandwich bag. Other than that, the room looks intact, like one no one had been in there since it was cleaned.

There’s one major flaw. 

“Where is she?”

Huell points to the small bathroom next to the queen bed. “Lil’ Shawty locked herself in.” 

With a newfound energy, Mike strides over to the bathroom and jingles the handle. It’s locked with a deadbolt, like Huell said.

He continues, waddling over to Mike. “I was in the other room, _like you told me,_ then Kuby came, being a dumbass like he always is. Brought her some dinner, but all it was gas station shit. I told him she needs real sustenance, so I went and got her Subway and some gatorade, give her some protein and electrolytes. It’s good for you. Kuby left when I came back, I brought her food, like I said I would, but she was in there. Won’t come out. Won’t answer me when I ask if she okay.” 

Through the cracks, Mike can see that the light is on. Other than that, he hears nothing. Absolutely nothing. 

“Stressing me out, man,” Huell sputters above the TV. “Kuby said it was no big deal, but I saw her, man. All that shit she did to her arms. Trying to hide it with her sleeves. Had a cousin the same way. Don’t want her hurting herself. She's just a lil’ thing.”

“What scared her?” Mike presses.

Huell waves his arms. “I dunno, man. Ain’t nothing going on in here before. She wasn’t sleeping. Hasn’t eaten a damn thing all day, though I don’t blame her. Twinkies and Mountain Dew ain't good nourishment. Then those punkass kids showed up, 'bout an hour ago, being loud and smoking. Mighta spooked her.”

A snarl threatens to escape his throat. _Look at this place. Anything could’ve spooked her._

The old man snatches the remote from the bedside table and silences the mind numbing sounds from the TV. His watch says it’s a quarter after eight, they’re already going to be late. He raps his knuckles on the door. 

“Hey, kid. It’s me.”

No response. 

“C’mon. Open the door.” 

_Goddamnit. We don’t have time for this._

“Baby girl,” Huell shouts over his shoulder, “Mike just wanna’ know if you alright. Proof of life’s all we need.”

He could pick the lock, or easily kick it open, anything to keep his responsibility from melting down and slicing open their wrists. But again, something inside him shuts those ideas down. Instead, he knocks on the door again, much softer, to the rhythm of _Shave and a Haircut._

There’s a long pause.

 _Tap-tap._ Two bits. 

It sounds like the rapping was against something fragile, like porcelain. Strange, but proof of life. 

“Good. Are you okay? Once for yes, twice for no.”

_Tap._

“Look, kiddo, I’m not gonna’ force my way in, so you need to unlock the door.” He pauses, softening his voice. “Got it?”

It takes several long moments before the lock clicks. 

Huell takes a seat on the bed, letting out a deep sigh.

Victorious, Mike walks into the bathroom. The worst case scenario is washed from his mind as he sees the girl, fully clothed and unharmed, sitting in the bathtub. Her knees are pulled up to her chest, eyes blank and emotionless, as dry as her clothes, but it’s apparent they’ve shed tears recently. Everything about her suggests she’s returned to a state of paralysis. Regressed back into her mind, like she had at Dr. Goodman’s. Only this time, she’s ignoring commands to move. 

Mike leans against the moldy sink, leaving the door open next to him.

“What happened?” Mike inquires.

She blinks.

“Something scared you. What was it?” He cocks his head to the side, trying to gage any reaction but failing. “Was it those kids? They see you?”

No movement. No response.

“Did you see something on TV?” Mike presses. 

Again, nothing. 

Fring gave Mike some details about the girl’s former “associate”. At least, that’s what Fring called him. The relationship was more akin to a master-slave relationship, with a touch of Lima Syndrome. The details were vague and delivered with the businesslike indifference that’s second nature to Fring. Most things were left out, which allowed Mike’s imagination plenty of space to fill in with horrific and gruesome speculation. Hell, he had enough material to work with from years on the force. 

And of course, Fring had yet to admit where their paths had crossed. 

But it wasn’t his place to know. If he presses further, Mike is reminded of the steady stream of illegitimate income, one that’s growing and growing, and purchased the box of crayons, the 64 count that Kaylee desired and begged for. And one that will disappear if he fails to complete his task, the thing that’s currently sitting catatonic in a bathtub. 

However, Mike isn’t afraid of losing the money. 

An image plays in his head, driving into the desert. Pulling out a small figure, restrained by the hands and gagged, forcing it to kneel in the sand, and taking aim...

All that happens if he doesn’t straighten her out. 

“Kid, we got somewhere to be,” Mike tells her. “So you can either tell me what upset you now, or when I drop you back here. That can be your choice. But either way, you gotta’ come with me, and I’m not dragging you out.”

She tightens her grip on her knees, her lower lip quivering, and sinks her head lower into her legs. With a sigh, Mike leans over and yanks the faucet on the shower. 

Like a switch, she’s lucid once more, shrieking, “What the _shit?!”_

She shrinks to the opposite side of the tub, trying to avoid the stream of ice cold water that sprays down at her. Once he’s certain she’s gotten the message, he switches it off, tucking his hands into his pockets. The girl gapes up at him in utter confusion, her dark hair sticking to her face.

Huell appears in the doorway. “What the hell?”

“What the _fuck_ was that for?” the girl exclaims, her teeth chattering.

“I don’t have time for you to mope.”

She stands up. _“_ What?”

With a much clearer tone, he repeats, “I don’t have time for you to mope. We have to get going. This needs to be done tonight.”

Her arms fold across her chest. “You were supposed to be here at _seven._ ”

“Try again.”

She shivers, hugging herself. “What are you—?”

“Not good enough,” he drones. “You’re not upset that I’m late. It’s something else. If you don’t wanna talk about it, fine. I’ll live. You want to pretend to be mad at me? Fine. But do it in the car.”

Her defiance persists as she trembles in the tub. 

“I’m not your babysitter. I’m not your therapist. I’m not here to hold your hand. My one and only job, for the time being, is to get you where you need to be, when you need to be there. Quit feeling sorry for yourself. You’ve proven you’re better than that.”

With one large sigh, her defiance melts. And without a word, she steps out of the bathroom, pushing past Huell. 

The giant shrugs at Mike. “Teenagers, man.”

Mike exits the bathroom. The girl’s waiting for him by the door, her arms still folded defensively across her chest. Mike pulls off his jacket and hands it to her. 

“It’s cold,” he says. 

Not looking him in the eye, she snatches it and wraps herself inside it. 

“Don’t worry. They’ll have a change of clothes for you.”

Mike grabs the food Kuby had brought her; a plastic bag of random assortments from the gas station across the street, none of which offer any nutritional value that she desperately needs. Huell’s right, nothing’s been touched. He makes the choice to leave the lukewarm sub behind. 

The girl doesn’t leave the room until Mike does, following closely behind him like a small dog. The group of kids have retreated into their room, music screeching from some low quality speaker. The curtain moves, just as Mike catches a glimpse of a pair of blue eyes watching them. Huell trots behind Mike and the girl, grumbling about his knees as they descend the stairs. 

As they approach the car, the girl walks around to the trunk, popping it open, almost without thinking. 

Huell pauses. “What the hell she doin’?”

The girl stares at them, her knee resting on the rim of the trunk. It takes a few moments for her mind to register the peculiarity of the situation, but once it does, she slowly lowers her foot back onto the asphalt. 

“You’re up front,” Mike tells her. 

Huell’s eyes snap to him, just as her’s grow rounder. 

“Trunk or shotgun,” he shrugs. “Whichever you want.”

“... You’re not mad at me?” she asks timidly.

“Got no reason to be.” 

“I do,” Huell quips. “You must outta’ your damn mind if you think I’m shoving my ass back there.”

“Then drive yourself,” Mike says. 

“Not wasting gas money on this,” Huell mumbles, shoving himself into the back seat. Mike’s car shifts with the weight, the back sinking a few inches closer to the pavement. Then Mike sees something even stranger. 

The girl smiles.

It’s soft and gone in an instant, but the sight of the oversized man shoving himself in the back of Mike’s car, causes her mouth to twitch upwards and a small burst of air to come out of her nose. She climbs in next to Mike, admiring the amount of space she has to move her legs, unlike Huell. 

Once they’re on the road and the motel is disappearing behind them, the girl says softly, “I’m nineteen.”

Mike barely hears her. “What’s that?”

“You asked me what was wrong,” she says. “It wasn’t those kids. I mean, yeah, they were loud, and their weed was shit, but it wasn’t them. I had the TV on, and the lady on the news said the date. I didn’t know it was 2006. I’m nineteen now.”

“What year did you think it was?”

“I dunno,” she mumbles. “Last time I checked, I was seventeen.”

“I’m glad you had this revelation,” the man snips from behind her. “But you better pull your seat up before I lose circulation in my legs, Baby Girl.”

“Oh, sorry.” 

She yanks the lever and brings herself towards the dashboard. 

“Now, I suggest you tell McGill you’re twenty one,” Huell says. “New ID, new life. Be better if you're legal drinking age and such. More freedoms.”

“Who’s McGill?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I had to rewrite this chapter, because originally, Mike was a lot more fatherly towards the girl (who gets a name next chapter I promise), and it felt wrong for his character. Remember, this is the guy who slapped Jesse across the face after his girlfriend just died. Mike'll do whatever's necessary to get the job done. 
> 
> Since Matty's never shown in the BB Universe, just talked about, I'll be taking A LOT of liberties with his character. And there will be more going on than just a rebellious teenager, because I don't think he was that way. 
> 
> Again, thanks to everyone who's gotten this far. I know these types of stories aren't popular or intriguing, so it really means a lot whenever someone just clicks on it. Next chapter is called "Magic Man".


	12. The Magic Man

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> I'm useless, but not for long  
> The future is coming on
> 
> "Clint Eastwood" by Gorillaz

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Translations: 
> 
> Bien hecho - good job/well done  
> Solo una parada rápida - just a quick stop  
> Nadie puede saberlo - no one can know  
> Confía en mí - trust me  
> Hazlo ahora - do it now  
> Hay mas - there is more  
> Lo entiendes? - do you understand?

_Calm down. It’ll be over._

Hot, recycled air surrounded her. Her legs were folded up to her chest, molding her into a fetal position. The compartment jostled a bit, rattling her around the small space. Muffled music played from outside. Nena’s eyes squeezed shut, though it didn’t change much about her pitch black surroundings. All it did was allow her to imagine someplace else, somewhere that wasn’t suffocating her, or shaking her around like a maraca.

It felt like hours, until finally, the cover above her head lifted, opening like the lid of a coffin. Above her stood Raul, blocking out the sunlight and extending his hand down towards her. She was relieved and grateful to see his face, and took the hand obediently.

 _“Bien hecho,_ Nena,” Raul grunted, pulling her out of the car.

The infinite expanse of her surroundings made her head spin, or it could be the head rush. Small, colorful dots danced around her eyes as she gaped at the desert wasteland, a vast difference from the confinement of the Villa. It seemed to go on for miles, only being swallowed up by the blue sky. 

_“Solo una parada rápida,”_ he said.

Raul turned his back on her, digging through the trunk of his black Ford Explorer. Dirty and a few years old, it was a modest car, considering it’s owner. Raul preferred to travel discreetly. He was smart like that.

 _“Donde estamos ahora?”_ she asked softly. 

“ _Cerca de Tigua_.”

Tigua brought back memories of US history class, learning about the Indigenous Peoples and the few reservations in her home state. Little did she know learning historical geography would actually help her. She turned to him, slowly. “... We’re in America?”

The sight of him made her blood run cold. Raul stood next to his open trunk, a dusty shovel in hand. Terror paralyzed her momentarily, then it was numbed by relief, as a thought came into her head. _Finally. It’s over._

However, Raul tossed her two empty duffle bags. 

_Oh._

_“Si._ Just a quick stop, then Las Cruces.”

“We’re not going to Odessa?” 

Raul shook his head. “Like I said, _nadie puede saberlo._ Vaas has too many people in Odessa and Houston, someone’s bound to recognize me. New Mexico will be safer. For both of us.”

“... Why can’t Vaas know?” she asked nervously.

He pats her shoulder. “I’ll tell you when you meet Dante. He’ll explain things better. _Confía en mí,_ Nena.”

Though she’s curious about who Dante is, she didn’t press further, instead following Raul away from the road and towards the wasteland. They walked a few yards, then she saw it. A cross, sticking out of the ground. 

A grave.

Dead flowers, probably marigolds, encircled the two foot tall cross. A small statue of Our Lady of Guadalupe was propped against it, watching over whatever corpse laid to rest beneath it. Raul stopped next to her, standing so close that she could feel his sweat soaking through his white shirt. 

“Do you pray?” 

She sighed, “Not anymore.”

“Me neither,” he grumbled. _“Aqui.”_

The man handed her the shovel, tapping at the ground with his boot, right where the body would be. 

Horrified, she looked at him. 

_“Hazlo ahora.”_ He stepped away, lighting up a cigarette. He smoked and watched her break the ground, taking a seat on a nearby rock. The dirt was looser than she thought, and it was easy to penetrate with the shovel. However, her arms started shaking as soon as she scooped it up, making a small pile off to the side. With each scoop, she feared striking bone. Or a coffin. Seeing a rotting, dusty corpse in the desert. When these thoughts came, she imagined striking Raul with the shovel. 

She could do it. Kill him, steal the car, but for some reason, she doesn't. Nena just dug, until she struck something with a strange, familiar _thunk._ Plastic.

Finished with his cigarette, Raul stood up and joined her, brushing the loose soil away. A plastic barrel, about three feet long, is in the ground. Raul yanked at the lid, and Nena prepared for the macabre horror that was inside. Rather than a rotting, stinking corpse, there were stacks of green paper.

Money. Slightly disappointing.

Raul starts pulling out the stacks of American dollars, each adorning a 100 in the corners. He counts as he pulls them out, the number reaching proportions that her Spanish can’t comprehend. 

“How much is that?” 

“Eh, _necesitamos cinco millones de dólares._ But there’s more out here. I have about four more barrels.”

Five million. 

“This isn’t a drop.” She knows where those are. “You’re just... Hiding money out here?”

Raul stood up, brushing the dust off his jeans. “Only for emergencies. Like, if you need a new roof, or you need money to fix your car. Small things.”

“You need five million dollars to fix your car?”

He chuckles at her flat delivery. “Not today.”

The duffle bags are closed, each containing an ungodly amount of cash.

After reburying the grave, the two of them walked back to the truck. The weight of the bags threatened to pull her shoulders from their sockets. Sweat poured down her head by the time she arrived at the car, despite the incredibly short walk, Raul waiting by the opened trunk. He threw the shovel and bags in, unzipping one of them and pulling out several stacks, which were then placed into a large envelope.

_“Eso es todo?”_

_“Hay mas,”_ he tells her, giving her a kiss on the head. 

***

Once they arrive at the strip mall, time seems to speed up. She expected another warehouse or vacant lot or any other cliche Cartel meeting spots, but a strip mall in downtown Albuquerque was not on the list. All the stores are darkened, the red “closed” signs illuminated in the windows, with maybe one or two cars still parked under the street lamps. Mike and Huell step out of the car, chugging along to a nail salon. She follows, trying to catch up, and all the chemicals hit her at once. 

Bright, fluorescent lights hum from the ceiling. Paintings of scenes from around the world, each that seem to have no correlation, hang on the baby blue walls. Potted plants and flowers are scattered on any surface not already covered. There’s voices talking, Huell and Mike and some other guy, above the soothing, bilateral sounds of East Asia. The girl walks forward, somehow having fallen out of regular time, entranced by the large, orange fish swimming in an aquarium, dancing around as their long, flowing tail fins billow behind them. The sound of arguing is drowned out by the bubbling water. She reaches out her hand, placing her fingertips on the glass.

“Ah! The Mystical Girl of Mystery. Welcome, welcome.”

The voice snaps her out of it, making her jump. She jerks away from the fish, seeing the source; a man straight out of a Saturday morning cartoon. The stench of his cologne overpowers the salon chemicals, radiating off his kitschy orange and blue suit. It looks pressed and spotless, almost like a costume. His chestnut hair is slicked down, hiding a receding hairline. 

The girl stares at the hand in front of her, her feet finally on the ground. 

The man’s beaming, crows feet smile stares down at her, somehow feeling both charmingly genuine and horrendously fake at the same time. It starts to falter the longer the silence stretches out. With a shaking hand, she slides her fingers and palm into his, limply following the motions of a handshake.

“You’re the ‘magic man’?” It sounds _much_ stupider out loud. 

“Magic man, lawyer, and for one night only...” He gives a dramatic pause, accentuating the flare of his voice. “Director of photography. Saul Goodman, great to meet you.”

“I thought your name was McGill.”

“Ah, well,” Saul chuckles. “It’s a weird, long story. One I’m sure would bore you, but you will soon relate to. You can just call me Saul, or Mr. Goodman. Whichever one you like. And you must be...?”

“No names.” 

Mike has taken a seat behind her in the waiting chairs. 

Saul claps his hands. “Okay, Eastwood. Whatever you say. Right this way, m’dear.”

The lawyer takes a gentle and hesitant hold on her shoulder, leading her towards the set up. A green sheet taped against the wall, long enough that some of it is on the floor, underneath a black stool. A large lamp shines a harsh light on top of it. A camera’s propped on a tripod. 

“So, I’m assuming Walter Matthau over there,” Saul begins, nodding towards Mike, “gave you the rundown of tonight.”

 _Have you met him? He didn’t tell me shit._ “...Not really, no.”

“So surprising” Saul grumbles, almost to himself. “He’s such a Chatty Kathy. The point of tonight is rewriting your story. My guy’s gonna set you up with a whole new life. I’m talking _everything_ : driver’s license, social security, passport, degrees, _credit score._ Trust me, this guy’s amazing.”

They arrive at the barstool, and he motions for her to take a seat. 

“Now, usually, he provides transportation to a new location, but I understand that’s not really on the menu for today.” Something cracks in his salesman demeanor. “But I’m sure a young woman like yourself with her entire life ahead of her would love to stay in the Scrotum of the Southwest.”

Her eyes dart to Mike. His brow is more wrinkled than normal, hanging on Saul’s every word. 

“Transportation?”

Saul squeezes his lips together. “Yep. The guy could have you in Pensacola by next week, have your name be Patty Simcox, and have you major in Film History.” He waves his hand. “However, tonight, we’re just going to focus on the photos for ID, and height and weight and allergies for medical records. All that good stuff. My good man Huell, over there—“

Huell waves his hand. 

“—whom you’ve already had the pleasure, is going to add a little more...” he gestures at her face “... Color, I suppose.”

Mike crows, “ _McGill_.”

Saul adds with a pointed finger. “At, of course, your level of comfort.”

She looks over at Huell, then at Mike, remembering what he told her back at the motel. “I’m fine.”

“Great. I also got you a change of clothes.” Saul scoops up a bundle of fabric from a nearby chair, his eyes lock on her arms for a moment, before shaking himself free. “For the passport. Nine Inch Nails works just fine for drivers license, but for the passport, we may want to go for business-casual.”

She tugs self-consciously at her t-shirt. 

“But please be careful,” Saul adds, lowering his voice. “They’re my wife’s.”

He places the bundle back down. 

“Okay! Huell, do your thing,” he says. “Not too much, though.”

Saul leaves the setup, going over to Mike. The two of them are exchanging hushed words, Saul’s cheerful posture is gone.

Huell waddles over to her as she sits on the barstool, grabbing a make-up palette from the wayside. He dusts her face with various powders, things she’s certain she knew the name for at some point but has since forgotten. Huell’s hand is massive and could easily wrap around her entire face. At any moment, he could choose to snap her neck or crush her skull, and there’s nothing she could do about it. She ends up sitting on her hands, though each time he moves, they try to get free. The image of her digging her nails into his eyes flashes in her mind. 

He catches her cringing again, and sighs. “S’alright, honey. I got all my sisters ready for Prom.”

She bites her lip. 

“Also you ain’t my type,” he adds. “I prefer fuller women.”

For some reason, she stifles a laugh. 

Huell also unties her hair, lets it fall down. After a few showers, the tangled mass of dark curls is returning to a softer wave, her more natural state. Huell tosses it around until he’s satisfied. Then he steps behind the camera. Saul returns, switching on his smile.

After a few attempts and camera flashes, the girl’s face is hurting.

“Um, that was great, sweetheart,” the lawyer says, stepping closer to Huell behind the camera. “Why don’t we try another one? This time with a little less Squeaky Fromme, okay?”

The girl looks to the lawyer. “Who?”

“Never mind,” he says with a wave of his hands. “Smile’s good, but try to make it look real. Trust me, you don’t want it to look fake.”

“You would know ‘bout that, huh,” mumbles the cameraman. 

“Just take the pictures, Huell.” Saul swats his shoulder, then brings his attention back to the girl. “Alright, come on. Smile now. Fake IDs need personality, otherwise you’ll spend your Winter Formal in a holding cell in Milwaukee. Maybe think of something funny.”

_I hate this._

The girl glances towards Mike, sitting flat faced against the wall. She can’t tell if he delights in her misery. The image of Huell trying to fit in his car replays in her mind. Her lips pull apart and the camera flashes. 

“Good! That’s the money.” Saul walks up to her. “You actually had life in your eyes.”

She leans away from him. “... Thanks.”

“Next up, passport. Put on that number, maybe pull the hair back a little.” 

The bundle of clothes are put in her hands, and Saul points out the bathroom in the back. She walks away, giving one last look to Mike, before shutting the door behind her. 

A large mirror hangs over the sinks, reflecting the two stalls on the opposite wall. As she walks in, she sees something in the mirror, and jumps. 

She had seen herself plenty of times in mirrors, and the skeletal, rat like creature she had become. Skin and bones. Wild eyes. Straight out of a horror movie, but now, pink powder was added to her cheeks, giving them life for the first time in years. The colors on her eyes turn them from a dull, dead grass brown, to a bright, vibrant amber. Long, dark lashes bat with every blink. 

Fingers run across her sharp jaw. Gone forever is the youthful pudge to her cheeks, and the awkward, teenage dimensions. Despite her thinness, she looks like a woman. A person. She looks...

_Normal._

Then, her trembling fingers pull off her shirt, revealing the scars, and the memories of each received. The jagged, small L shaped one from when she was shoved into a table. The minuscule brown spot where someone pressed a cigarette to her ribs. The one’s she put there with her own nails, trying to defile her own body, trying to become so hideous no one would want to touch her. And the new one, the hole in her shoulder that’s still red, the one she didn’t even feel, until she woke up in that warehouse. She traces them with a disconnected interest, like they’re attached to someone else’s skin. Memories from someone else’s life, like her old name. 

The finger freezes on her wrist. The lines just under the veins, varying in thickness, and the set of numbers she knew by heart. She still feels the sting of the needle. 

She pulls the blouse over her head, yanking the long sleeve down, all the way to the wrist. The tattoo is still visible through the sheer fabric. 

Tonight, she’s going to become someone else. The scars will just be that. And she knows just what to do with her new life.

Passport completed and clothing returned, nearly perfect, besides the small smudge of eyeshadow she hopes Saul doesn’t notice, she stands with the lawyer and Huell at the front desk of the salon. 

“Okay, let’s get down to brass tax.” Saul slides a single piece of paper towards him. A pen appears from his jacket, and he clicks it. “Height.”

She has to think. “Um, five foot four?”

Saul scribbles it down. “Weight?”

“One hundred and thirty five.” It’s her weight from before.

The lawyer’s eyes look her up and down again. “Is that holding a sack of flour or soaking wet?”

Mike clears his throat behind her. Saul shakes his head. 

“It’s okay. Just try to fill out. Blood type?”

“AB positive.”

“Universal recipient.” His voice bounces, but his face stays still. “Good for your line of work, I’m sure.”

“McGill.”

Saul ignores Mike’s threatening tone. “Any allergies or other medical problems?”

“No, sir.”

“Great, boring stuff is over. Now, about the name. Usually, my guy doesn’t really let you pick the surname, because of Social Security and all that, but first names—”

“Ava.”

It comes out so quickly that he and Huell are taken aback. “Are... are you sure you don’t want something more - I mean, you’re obviously of Latin descent and all—”

Mike steps next to her. “I like Ava.”

Saul shrugs it off. “Okay, Ava. Welcome to Albuquerque, Ava.”

The name seems fragile, even as a word. Like something that could be taken away, or something she’ll easily break. It fills her with both excitement, and guilt, but she couldn’t choose any other name. 

“What about age?” he asks. “Might I recommend—”

“Twenty one.” 

“Smart girl,” he says with a wink. “Legal drinking age. But just to let you know, someone of your size _will_ be IDed everywhere. Also, go easy on the hard liquor. Maybe just stick to beers and cocktails.

“So, like I said, my guy will cover most bases. All basic forms of ID? Taken care of. But, for education and work experience, it may cost a little extra. Those things have a lot more value. A GED is a no brainer. Comes with the package. But if you wanted, let’s say, an Associates or a Bachelors, that’s gonna be another $50,000.”

“Or you could go to college,” Huell quips.

“Yeah, well. First option is easier on the liver. However, those are as far as he goes. No Masters or PhDs or anything that requires _actual_ knowledge. How does that sound?”

The girl shrinks towards Mike as they stare at her. “How will that work? I didn’t go to college.”

“Yeah, well. Most people don’t even use their degrees. We could slap you with a business degree, and you could go on to a master’s in engineering or become a dental hygienist. It’s just to help you get on your feet. My guy’s the best, but again, and I can’t stress this enough, no degrees that could hurt people.”

“Don’t be playing nurse, baby girl,” Huell interjects again. 

Saul points to his partner. “Yeah, that.”

Ava nods. “Okay.”

Mike’s phone buzzes, and he steps outside to take the call, leaving Ava alone with the lawyer and Huell. Saul’s finishing up, his hand scribbling across the page. Huell’s taking down the photography set up, grumbling to himself. 

Her mouth is dry when she asks, “So, you’re a lawyer?”

“Yep.” The salesman persona has lessened. 

“The Law and Order kind or...” she searches for the gentlest term she could think of. “The leech kind?”

Saul chuckles. “I’m the ‘whatever you need in the moment’ kind, really.”

“So if I asked you to do something for me,” she begins, her mouth drying up. “You wouldn’t be able to tell anyone, right? Not even Mike?”

Now Saul’s looking at her, his curiosity piqued.

“Well, there’s attorney-client privilege. Where, if you were a client, I legally would not be allowed to tell anyone, yes. It could cause a lot of problems for me.”

“... So, could I like, hire you tonight? For something? I don’t have money, yet, but...”

Saul teeters his head, then sighs. “Give me a dollar.”

“... A dollar?”

“Yeah,” he says, doing the universal sign for _gimme._ “A dollar.”

“I don’t... Have a—”

Saul reaches into his pants pocket, removing a leather wallet. He pulls out a single dollar bill and gives it to her. “Here.”

Ava takes it. Saul does the same hand signal. _Gimme._

She hands him back the dollar.

“Okay, you are now my official client.” He looks at Huell, too preoccupied to be listening. “So, what can I do for you?”

“I need to find someone.”

Saul points to the window. “I think he’s a better option for that. 

“No, he can’t know,” she shakes her head. “I need an address. An exact address. I only know the name, but...”

Saul squints his eyes and hisses through his teeth. “Well, potentially, I could, but have you ever heard of a phone book?”

“They don’t live here,” she clarifies. “That much I know.” 

_I don’t even know if it’s a real name._

“Even if I could, it would have to be due to some... I dunno, some kind of litigation.” Saul lowers his tone once more, leaning in closer to her. “If you were to, let’s say, sue this person in a civil court, even for something small, like emotional damages, they would - _legally_ \- have to be notified of charges. This would require a lawyer to look up their official place of residence, so that they could be notified. Which a lawyer could, in theory, give to their client.”

Ava bites her lip. 

“But, of course, I need to advise that, seeing as your new identity is... less than legitimate, this could potentially be dangerous for you -”

“I don’t care.”

Saul adds, “And, your attorney.”

She holds her breath, thinking through it. “How much would you want?”

The facade is gone, and Ava sees someone underneath the glitz and cologne. They look confused, and concerned, and then afraid. 

“How... much?”

“I can get you money,” she says quickly and quietly. “Just, not now.” 

_As soon as I have a car._

“As your new lawyer,” Saul’s trying to regain his energy, “I don’t need to know any details. And would really, prefer not to. However, I just want to let you know, if my personal safety could potentially be threatened, my price is a little high for certain... services. Like, our mutual friend tonight told me this is highly on the down low, the price was raised.”

“How much?” she repeats, a new strength in her voice.

“Twice my hourly rate, during normal hours, which is about sixteen thousand—”

 _Easy._ “Done.”

“Wow, okay. Deal.” Saul slides a notepad to her. “What’s the name?”

_Josefina Guadelupe Fuez._

She rips the paper and hands it to him. “Thank you.”

“And I promise, this is between us. Attorney to client.”

He offers her a hand again. She has more energy as she shakes it.

***

Nena felt a growing anxiety as the Explorer left the desert and entered civilization. Of course, from her view, she couldn’t see any of it, only glimpses. Once the first billboard appeared through the window, her gaze didn’t leave it, watching as they became more frequent, until she saw buildings and street signs and stop lights passing overhead. All in English, which only confirmed that she was in the States. Raul wasn’t lying. 

Or maybe she never left. Maybe it was all lies.

Raul drove infuriatingly legally. Nena watched and hoped as she laid on the floor of the back seat for him to run a red light, or not stop fully, or speed, or that some racist cop would see a Latino driving and assume he had drugs. Far fetched, especially since he’s on the lighter side, but possible. Then she could scream. 

But again, she knew what would happen the moment she made a sound.

It’s all just a fleeting fantasy. Had a scenario similar to that occurred, she wouldn’t act on it. 

Escape was impossible, and she knew better. In previous failed attempts, at least it was only her who suffered. Out here it would be different. She knew that his gun was under the steering wheel, and how fast he was at drawing it. That cop’s head would be gone before they could say, “What”, then she’d get it.

Raul was a decent man, considering. Reasonable. Rational. 

That made him terrifying when he was angry. Making him angry was the last thing she wanted to do.

The signs of downtown disappeared from the window, and are replaced with clouds and blue skies, easing the tightness in her chest, yet filling the empty void inside with disappointment and despair. Surprising that she could still feel those. 

Raul stopped the car, and her heart leapt into her throat.

 _“Qué es?”_ she stuttered, looking around from the floor. 

_“No es nada,”_ he assured. “Just something I need you to do. You look less suspicious.”

Nena doubted that. The clothes she’s wearing are large and baggy, draping across her skinny bones, and now clinging to her with sweat. No clothes fit her right anymore. Dirt and grime from the desert was all over her hands and feet. She was definitely in need of a shower, though she wasn’t sure she wanted one again. Just the thought made her sick.

“Out the right door,” he began, “there’s a field. When you step outside, there will be a large, white mailbox to your left, down the street. _Lo entiendes?”_

Though he couldn’t see her, she nodded her head. _“Si.”_

“You’re going to walk to it slowly and unlock mailbox number twenty seven. Put this inside it, close it, and come back. _Lo entiendes?”_

“Yeah.” Her anxiety returned. 

Raul reached in between the seats, handing her the thick envelope and a key. She took it, clutching it to her chest like a shield, crawling up onto her knees at the door. 

Eerily, his tone didn’t change when he added, “You know what happens if you try anything.”

“Yeah,” she breathed. 

_“Dime que entiendes, Nena.”_

Her tongue went dry. “I understand... What happens if I try anything.”

_“Bueno.”_

When she climbed out of the car, she was stunned to see they were in a field, just outside the city, far enough away from any street signs or highway numbers. To her left, she saw the mailbox, off white from dust of construction happening about three blocks away. It must’ve been late afternoon, seeing as no one was there. Small houses were being built, each at a different stage of construction. Behind the rows of bland, tan colored shells were completed ones, already with occupants roaming around. 

She started striding quickly towards the mailbox, keeping her eyes locked down at her legs. She held her breath as a car approached, pleading in her mind to be ignored, and cringing as they sped past. The walk felt like eternity, with Raul’s eyes on her back the whole time, and no doubt, his hand on the gun under the steering wheel. 

She nearly crashed into the mailbox, searching for number twenty seven. It took several tries of her eyes scanning the numbers before she found it, sliding the key in with a shaking hand.

_Just calm down. Just put it in and go back._

It creaked open, and she was preparing to slide the envelope in, when something caught her eye. Letters were already inside, something that shouldn’t be strange for a mailbox, but she hadn’t expected anything to be in there. Especially when she was putting $200,000 inside it. 

And she certainly wasn’t expecting to see a letter for a child. 

It had to be. A Spiderman birthday card, addressed to someone named _Freddy,_ written in Raul’s handwriting. And another one, in a white, blank envelope, addressed to _Josie._ Her hand took it, holding it up.

Raul honked at her. 

Trembling, she shoved the envelope inside, on top of the letters, and slammed the mailbox shut. She ran back to the Explorer, adrenaline pulsing through her arms and legs, and climbed onto the floor of the back seat. 

“Everything okay?” 

Raul’s voice lacked suspicion, which made her more worried.

Her voice cracked. “Yeah. Sorry.” 

He didn’t press further and continued on. Her mind reeled, wondering where she’d heard the name _Josie_ from before. Vaas and Raul had been talking once, months ago, casually conversing as she laid unconscious, drugged up and sexed out, or so they thought. Vaas brought up someone named Josefina _,_ asked how she was doing. Raul simply said, “I don’t talk to my family anymore.”

Apparently, he lied. Raul’s sneaking around Vaas’ back. She didn’t like it. Something was going on, making her an accomplice. 

“... Raul?”

_“Si, Nena?”_

_“Rafa está enfermo?”_

Raul sighs. “Yes. Very sick.”

Her hands start shaking. “If he dies, Vaas will be in charge, right?”

“Yes,” he responds, his tone darker.

Her stomach feels sick. “Of everything?”

There’s only one way that goes. With Rafa gone, Vaas won’t have to hide his _side_ business anymore. There’s nothing to stop him. There’s more money in it than drugs. Or guns. Or anything. Tears brim in her eyes. 

“Don’t worry, Nena,” he said. “Everything’s going to be okay.”

Unsurprisingly, his words did nothing to sooth her. 

“We have a plan.”

***

The ride back to the motel is mostly silent, since Mike’s not a fan of the radio. Honestly, that doesn’t surprise her in the slightest. Even more surprising is that she doesn’t mind the silence. She’d attempted to watch TV in the motel and discovered she hated it. All of it. The loud noises, the obnoxiously bright commercials, the quick paced movement of _everything_ , it either bored or irritated her. She can’t imagine the radio would be any different. Maybe all forms of media just went to shit in the past three years. Movies, too. All the things she enjoyed before, music, TV, books, magazines, they all suck now. 

Or maybe she’s just different. _Probably that._

Night is alive outside. They drive through downtown Albuquerque, the incandescent, neon beacons of diners and bars and strip clubs shine through. People move around outside, like they did in Mexico in the village, going about their business. Talking and getting drunk and throwing up and kissing and experiencing every shallow, trivial pleasure that makes being alive worth it. 

But it’s the same as the TV; unappealing, empty, and fake. 

A month ago, hell, maybe even a year or two ago, all she wanted was normal, everyday life. What she had before. _Way_ before. Not anymore. 

_Quit feeling sorry for yourself._

She hears Mike’s voice, first in her head, then out loud next to her, ripping her free of her self-loathing.

“How’s it feel?”

“How does what feel?” 

“New life, new name,” he lists, “new opportunity.”

She takes a moment, observing the sensations throughout her body. “Doesn't feel any different, to be honest.”

Mike bobs his head, the neon reflecting off his face. “I’d be lying if I didn’t say I was jealous. Not a lot of people get the chance at a fresh start.”

 _Not a lot of people are me._ “Yeah, I know.”

Through the rearview mirror, she sees Huell roll his eyes. 

“So, Ava, huh?”

“Yep.”

“I’m assuming that’s not your real name.”

A tingle runs down her spine, all the way to her finger tips. A pit forms in her stomach. Maybe guilt, or maybe because she’s starving. Possibly both. “No, it’s not.”

Huell pipes up from the back seat, “Yeah, I’m kinda’ curious. What _is_ your real name, baby girl?”

It’s been so long since she heard it. There were sometimes days or weeks that passed, when even she forgot what it was. Those around her only ever called her _Nena,_ or _mi alma,_ or bitch, so those must be her name. No sense remembering what she’ll never have again. And even now, it feels wrong to have the old one.

“Doesn’t matter.”

“Well, it might,” Huell counters. “You're a young one. Don’t you got, like, family and what not? Friends? Ain’t they gonna’ be worried about you?”

The horrible truth is, no. It’s pathetic, and she doesn’t want to admit it. Mike’s listening intently for her response, though his eyes are glued to the road, trying to seem uninterested in the conversation going on without him. 

“No.”

“Your family ain’t looking for you?”

“No one’s looking for me.” 

The talking stops there. The silence resumes, and lingers until they pull into the motel parking lot. Despite the lateness and the hour rate advertised, no new vacancies have been filled, and she’s fine with that. Ava already has to put up with the loud, obnoxious wanna-be-gangsters down the hallway. Mike had asked if they scared her, but honestly, they’re kids at Halloween compared to what she’s seen. The only thing that frightens her is not knowing when they’ll stop playing their god awful music or smoking their skunk weed.

Ava follows Mike to the stairway, though he stops and turns towards Huell. “You’re done for now.” Then, he looks at her, still speaking with Huell. “I’m with her tonight. We got somewhere to be, bright and early tomorrow. Your employer will let you know when your services are needed again.”

“Aight, man. But I left my keys up there.”

Mike grumbles and the three of them ascend the stairs, Huell taking his time. The music blares from the party room, Ava rolling her eyes at the loud, male voices attempting to talk over one another. Mike catches her, and seems pleased, unlocking the door to her room and swinging it open, before freezing.

Ava doesn’t see the figure on the bed until she’s through the doorway. 

A small, startled scream jumps out of her throat. She leaps behind Mike, gripping onto his jacket.

Huell exclaims, “Ah, shit!”

It’s a man, about thirty years old, with a shaved head and a pink, button up shirt, one that’s just a size too small. He’s sitting on the queen bed, his hands on his knees, staring at Mike with daggers for eyes. Relief hits Ava when she realizes she doesn’t recognize him, though it’s short lived. All the blood in her veins has gone cold. 

When the man speaks, his voice is soft, and American. 

“So this is why you’ve been ignoring me?” he asks, gesturing at Mike and her. “Babysitting?”

“How’d you get in here?” Mike growls. 

“This place is a shithole,” he explains. “Just asked the night manager to reprint my key.”

The man stands up, the light from outside hits his waistband, illuminating the gun tucked into his jeans. Mike’s arm pushes Ava further behind him, and she feels all the muscles in his back tensing. Her legs prepare to run. 

“Aren’t you going to introduce us?” he asks.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As always, thanks for sticking with me this long. I love writing mysteries, though my preferred format is screenplays, so this style is a little foreign to me. Also, my least favorite thing to write is dialogue, so this chapter was a bitch. 
> 
> Currently making a playlist for this story, got the idea from HimsaAhimsa, who wrote the amazing Jesse Pinkman story called Redintegration. If you haven't read it yet, I highly recommend it.


	13. Tan Buena Como Muerta

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> He venido a decirte  
> Que te sigo queriendo (I've come today to tell you  
> that I still want you)  
> He venido a decirte  
> Que te sigo amando (I've come today to tell you  
> that I still love you)
> 
> “He Venido” by los Zafiros

Nacho knew the old man had a habit of aligning himself with strange characters, but this one was a surprise. 

He hadn’t gotten a good look at her before she leapt behind Mike, yipping like a small dog getting its tail stepped on. And the old man is doing his best to cover her, an aggression in Mike’s eyes, a paternal instinct to protect the thing behind him. It doesn’t stop her from peaking out to look at him, eyes round and glistening, the irises changing from green to gold. There’s not a shred of fear in them, just curiosity that bats with dark lashes. Nacho can’t help but get trapped in them, cocking his head to the side like a child.

“What’s your name, _cosita?”_ Nacho says. 

“It’s ‘Fuck Off Before We Call the Fuzz’, ‘migo!”

The squeaky, Cajun voice belongs to the hulking mass standing outside. Nacho backs away, feeling his hands going up, before stopping. It’s the same man he’s seen around with the lawyer. A frustrated gust of air releases from his nose, and his gaze returns to the girl, just as Mike steps to the side. The dark lashes vanish.

“I know it’s not your thing, but I just wanna talk.”

The two of them glare at each other. The sounds from down the hall fill the silence.

Mike finally orders, “Huell, get her out of here.” 

“No, no.” He points to the little thing behind Mike. “She stays.”

The prospect makes the old man waver on his feet. “The kid’s got nothing to do with—”

“Maybe, maybe not,” Nacho interjects, voice remaining calm. “I wouldn’t really know, though. Would I? I need her here to make sure you’re not lying to me. Tell your guard dog to wait outside.” 

“How ‘bout I fold your ass inside out?” the Cajun snaps.

Nacho brandishes his gun. “Like to see you try, _gordo.”_

The old man takes a few moments, then he tosses a pair of keys from the dresser behind him. “Huell, wait outside by the car.”

With a sigh and an eye roll, _Gordo_ reaches to shut the door, giving Nacho one last venom filled stare. Mike turns on the lamp in the corner, leaving _la cosita_ exposed and illuminated. Nacho gets a better look at her, and he’s taken aback. She’s young, yes, but not as young as he thought. Maybe twenty, but it’s hard to tell. Dark hair. Hypnotic eyes. But he’d never admit she’s pretty, even in his thoughts. Her association with Mike, and by proximity Gustavo Fring, taints that.

“Take a seat, _mamacita._ ”

Now nervous and a little confused, _la cosita_ tries to search Mike for comfort or reassurance, but the man keeps his back to her, steeping between her and the perceived threat in the room. She obeys Nacho, picking the spot on the bed furthest from Nacho, near the window.

“Okay, you have my undivided attention,” the old man says. “What’s this about?”

“Well, where do I start?” Nacho is seething, fingernails burying into his palms. “Lalo is breathing down my neck, and all you pricks do is tell me to sit and wait. And now, you got the lawyer, helping you hold up in some STD market with a side piece?” He’s practically growling. “Isn’t she a little young for you?”

“Not my department,” Mike says, brushing off the insult. “Take it up with Fring.”

“You don’t think I’ve tried? Asshole won’t answer me. Just his stupid lay boy Victor, who doesn’t tell me shit. So now _you_ tell _me_.” Nacho gestures with his head. “Who the fuck is she?”

The girl casts her eyes down, raking her nails across her forearms. 

Another infuriating response. “Not your concern.”

“Two of our guys are gone.” _Dead_. He knows that he’ll never find Dante and Ricardo alive, or they would’ve by now. But there’s a part of him that still feels Lalo’s gaze from before, and he doesn’t want to say it out loud. “I know Fring had something to do with it. And now Lalo thinks so, too.”

Mike holds his breath for a moment, then blinks slowly. 

“I found her in El Malpais,” he states, “with your two guys.”

 _Finally, some fucking answers._ “Where are they?”

“Dead.”

The girl has finally spoken up. Her voice is smooth and strong. Unafraid. But she doesn’t look him in the eye.

 _“Mierda,”_ Nacho mutters, chewing on his cheek. Hearing it out loud only legitimizes his anxiety. “Who was it?”

Mike’s mouth becomes a thin line, and the girl seems to cave into herself even more. Nacho chuckles, his eyes darting back and forth between them in disbelief, but neither of them waver in their expressions.

“She killed two crystal pushers?” Nacho presses. 

The old man shrugs his shoulders. “Maybe four.”

“No offense, _chicita,_ but you’re about as intimidating as my _tia’s_ lap dog.”

Her voice is barely audible. “... It was three.”

“You’ve gotta’ be shitting me.” The younger man rubs his temple, feeling the pain returning. He’s going to have to drink that away tonight. “So what? Little girl bleeds Lalo’s guys, so Fring gives her a gold star?”

“Actually, she stole from Fring, too.”

He’s not sure if he heard him right. _“What?”_

“A few hundred thousand.”

The plainness in Mike’s tone makes it sound simple. No big deal, like she hadn’t committed an act that’s a death sentence in their world. Had anyone done something like that to Tuco, they would have their tongues pulled out of their throats. Left alive for the buzzards to pick apart. He’s seen him do _much worse_ over _less_. Gustavo Fring’s no different. Probably more ruthless. 

“Am I missing something?” Nacho asks, trying to keep his voice down. “How’s this bitch’s head not on a stick?”

The girl winces harshly. Nacho feels a pang deep in his chest, but only for a moment.

The parental aggression flashes in Mike’s eyes. “Treading on thin ice, Varga.”

“You know what, fuck you,” Nacho snaps quietly. “You can’t keep me in the dark—”

“You want answers?” Mike steps closer, growling in his face. “Okay, here’s some. _I don’t know_. I don’t know _why_ he’s keeping her alive. I don’t know _what_ Fring wants with her. If he wanted me to know, he’d tell me. I just do what I’m told.” His eyes light on fire and he jabs a finger into Nacho’s shoulder. “Maybe you should try it some time.”

The old man’s words resonate with the girl. She bites down on her lip, turning her head towards the window. 

Acid builds up in Nacho’s words. “I’ve been ratting for that Chilean asshole for months now. He shoots me in the gut, puts a _gun_ to my father’s head, and tells me to lie to that mustached motherfucker who will _eviscerate_ me and my father if he finds out. And when I try to ‘do what I’m told’, Fring tells me to go fuck myself.”

Mike’s voice changes from a rough growl to its normal drone. “Lalo’s not gonna find out about any of this.”

“First all that shit with the Zeigler guy, now Ricardo and Dante? Lalo’s paranoid as hell. He doesn’t let it on, but he is. After finding that missing cop dead on one of our routes, and with Amarante, he’s grilling _everybody_ who meant break.”

The last sentence triggers something in Mike, and his eyes flash ice cold. The girl’s face goes ghost white.

“How do you know that name?” he questions. 

“Every _panderillo_ from El Paso to Bogota is talking about him,” Nacho says. “His whole operation is being gutted right now. Dozens of his men are just disappearing, even his second in command, Raul Narvaez. The motherfucker probably killed him around the same time Dante and Ricardo disappeared.”

Mike takes a deep breath. “Raul Narvaez was in El Malpais with your two guys.”

Nacho flinches, taking a step back. “What?”

“He was making a deal with your guys,” Mike explains. “They were both double crossing their bosses. Deal went south. Narvaez cut and ran. Left the girl behind to die.”

Something doesn’t add up. Ricardo’s sister mentioned Texas, so what were they doing by Arizona? Unless it was a ploy. Still, there’s a feeling in Nacho’s gut that tells him there’s more to the story, and he can see that even Mike doesn’t fully believe what he’s saying. “Is that what she told you?”

 _La cosita_ has stopped listening, her eyes locked on the outside world through the window, face completely drained of color. She barely has a voice when she croaks out, “There’s someone across the street.”

The old man’s head snaps to her. “What?”

A thin, shaking finger points through the sheer curtain. “The truck with the cover on the back. It wasn’t here before. They’ve been watching this room the whole time.”

All hostilities vanish, and he and Mike go towards the window. Nacho feels his heart thumping against his ribs, his hands going clammy. The girl parts the curtain slightly, and sure enough, there’s a faded red truck across the street, the bed concealed by a cover. There’s two men in the front seat, both taking turns looking at the room, trying to avoid suspicion, only Nacho would recognize the look on their faces. 

“One of yours?” Nacho exhales.

“No.”

The girl’s on the verge of fainting, her body swaying back and forth. She grips Mike’s forearm for support. The old man places a reassuring hand on her shoulder, and Nacho instantly knows who it is. 

“I gotta get her out of here,” Mike grumbles.

Nacho whispers, “Move fast. They follow, you can lose them.”

“No,” Mike shakes his head. “They’ll see her. They can’t know she’s here.”

The girl speaks. “I need a lighter.”

Both he and Mike utter a simultaneous, “What?”

“I know what will scare them off.” The color is returning to her face. “I need a lighter. Any of you have one?”

Nacho wrings his hands together. “One second.”

Ignoring the demands of Mike, he exits the room, glancing at the truck across the street. Their eyes follow him, and he sets his head forward, following the music and smell and trying not to arouse suspicion. He arrives at the door and bangs his fist against it, loud enough for them to hear.

A lanky, black haired gringo opens the door with a rush of smoke.“Uh, sorry, _amigo_ I think you got the wrong room.”

“I need a light.”

It takes a while for the request to process. “Oh. Okay.”

The kid digs through his oversized hoodie, pulling out a plastic, rastafarian lighter. He holds it out, flickering the flame, glazed eyes searching for a non-existent cigarette. Nacho snatches the lighter from his hand and charges down the walkway back to the room. The kid doesn’t even realize what’s happened until Nacho’s shutting the door behind him. 

The girl’s holding a bathroom rag. Timidly, she takes the lighter from Nacho and stands on the bed. The small flame dances under the corner of the rag until it ignites, small puffs of smoke swirling up to the smoke detector. The kid’s room down the way was basically on fire. They had either disabled them, or they didn’t work, and judging by their intelligence, Nacho’s counting on the latter. 

“This place’s a shithole,” Nacho says. “Those probably don’t—”

An alarm screeches, ringing through Nacho’s ears and pounding against the pain in his temple. Warning light flash in the room, lighting it up like daylight. Nacho and Mike look outside. The truck hesitates for a moment before speeding away, and they both sigh in relief. They turn back to the girl, who’s stomping out the flame on the floor.

Mike takes the girl’s arm. “Let’s get you out of here.”

She nods before snatching a plastic bag next to the dresser, hugging it tightly. The all three exit the room, running down the stairs together. The party has broken up down the hall, the kids scrambling to hide their paraphernalia and run to their cars, not paying attention to the other three. It gives them plenty of cover to escape and will no doubt answer the fire marshal's questions.

The giant is looking around, dumbfounded. “What the hell?”

“Get out of here,” Mike orders him. “I’m taking her with me.”

Nacho walks up to the old man, and again, he covers the girl from him. “Don’t ever come near her again,” he growls.

The girl gives Nacho a blank look. She climbs into the passenger seat. Nacho waits until the door is shut.

“Lalo called his cousins.”

Mike raises his eyebrow. “His cousins?”

“The twins. _Los sicarios._ Hitmen, whatever you want to call it. They’re coming here to look for dead men, and when they find them - which they will - they’ll look for who’s responsible. Unless Fring did a hell of a job cleaning up after her.”

Everything he just said hangs on the old man. It’s the first time he’s seen him show any emotion other than annoyance. Mike looks concerned, and even a little afraid. He looks at the girl in the passenger seat. 

“Are they any good?”

Nacho says quietly, “She’s as good as dead.”

***

“Hi, baby. How was your night?”

It’s the first thing Nacho hears when he closes the door behind him. Amber’s stretched out on his couch, half dressed and half asleep. Nacho doesn’t respond, and just keeps going to the kitchen. The other girl - _shit, who is she again?_ \- doesn’t lift her head up to watch him walk past. Just stares blankly at the TV, playing some loud, obnoxious reality show.

Muscle memory knows where the tequila is. Nacho fills a glass, and it’s gone instantly. He downs another. And another, until the pain in his temple is easing, and the tremors in his hands vanish.

Feminine fingers slide around his waist. Thin arms wrapping him in an embrace. “‘S everything okay, baby?”

Nacho takes another drink.

“Yeah, everything’s fine,” he lies. 

Her nails go up his shirt. “You wanna come to bed?”

Nacho’s about to answer, then something paralyzes him.

Through his kitchen window, he sees a faded red truck, parked across the street. The headlights are shut off, but he can see the silhouette of two men through the driver’s window. 

Nacho tears away from Amber, running out his door. He’s huffing the night air, shaking with anger, but the truck is gone.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A shorter one this week. So sorry, but then again, I'm not sure a lot of people are reading this anyways. There'll be a bonus chapter in a few days, and the one after that's going to be REALLY long.


	14. Night In

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "Forgotten Memories" by Gustavo Santaolalla

An explosion of sound erupted as Mike slammed the door, stomping away towards the stoop of the home. It echoed like a gunshot on their quiet, south Philadelphia street, entering the open windows of the neighboring homes. Mike quickly climbed the stairs, sweat dripping down the back of his neck, though he wasn’t sure if it was from the humidity or the fury and panic cocktail coursing through his veins. The passenger door closed behind him, though it was much quieter, more conscientious of the listening parties.

“Are we gonna’ talk about it?” 

Mike clenched his jaw and jammed his fist into his pant pocket, searching for the clump of aluminum and plastic. He looped his finger around the key ring and yanked them out, fumbling for the scuffed up, copper one, and stabbing it into the lock.

“No, I don’t think so,” Mike grumbled. 

The scent of cologne wafted behind him. _Mike’s_ cologne. Matty had apparently stolen that, too. He feels the presence of his son on the steps behind him. “Why not?” 

“Because right now, I want to kick your ass into next Sunday.” 

The door struck the wall with a _bang_.

“Now get inside.”

Desperate eyes looked at him. “I didn’t know, I swear.”

_“Inside.”_

Stubbornly, Matty maintained his father’s gaze and stepped through the door. A long, exasperated stream of air leaked out of Mike’s lungs, and he turned his head to see a figure standing by the waist high fence. Elderly eyes stared in judgment at him, a bag of trash halfway into the bin.

“Sorry you had to hear that, Mr. Everson.” 

“Just glad you two are talking again,” the old man muttered.

Mike shut the front door. Matty was standing in the kitchen, leaning against the faded yellow countertop. The two glimpsed at each other, before Mike continued on. 

“Dad, c’mon.”

Mike growled under his breath, stepping over the cardboard boxes and plastic bags that line the walls. He needed to get to a phone. Fast.

His son followed. “You know me, I’d never gotten in that car if I knew it was stolen.”

Yes, he did. Inside, Mike knew his son. He knew he was a good kid, and that he’d never do anything outside the law. But, that doesn’t change anything. His son was an accomplice to a crime, and worse than that, he was eighteen. Mike had to clean this up. He had to call Fenske, but his kid was persistent. And stubborn as he was. 

“Just say something!”

His foot froze on the first step. Mike gripped the banister in a hold that could break a neck. He took a step back, and turned to face his son. 

“Good night.”

“Are you _shitting_ me?” Matty exclaimed. 

“Watch it, kid—”

“For _two seconds_ , can you just be my father?”

“You want a father?” Mike snarled. Off the staircase, he charged toward his son, heat and saliva spewing from his mouth. “Okay, here he is. What the _fuck_ were you thinking?! I pulled your ass out of a _stolen car_ , and you’re turning this on me?”

Matty returned the venom. “It takes me being pulled out of a stolen car for you to talk to me!”

“Is that what this was? Some ploy to get my attention? Well, congratulations, kiddo. You got it. You wanna talk? Fine.” Marching into the kitchen, Mike yanked a chair from the table, scraping it across the floor. He gestured forcefully towards the seat. “Let’s talk.”

Skeptically, Matty took a seat, shifting his weight back and forth as his father circled him, staring him down like a predator.

“Where were you tonight?” he inquired. “Your note said Gary’s.”

“I was at Gary’s until eight. Anthony said he’d pick me up then, we’d get the girls and go out.”

“Out where?”

Matty threw his hands up. “I dunno, Dad. Out. Where guys and girls go. You want me to say it out loud?”

“So secondary location.” Mike knew of several where he’d broken up parties before. Mostly vacant lots and old buildings, but his son wouldn’t be caught dead in those places. He knew that much. “Were you meeting more people?”

“I don’t know.”

“Alcohol? Drugs?”

Insulted, he snapped back, “No!”

“Oh, so you’ll steal a car? But smoking pot is going too far?”

“I _didn’t_ _know_ it was stolen!”

“At what point did you figure it out?” Mike clutched the back of Matty’s chair until his knuckles turned white. “No, no, tell me Matthew. At what point did you realize that the _sports car_ your dumbass friend was driving wasn't his? At what point did you realize you were throwing away your future for some girl?”

The suspect threw his gaze down.

Mike leaned in. “Well, you got a head on your shoulders. So when did it happen? For Chrissake, did I teach you nothing? About how one slip up can jeopardize everything?” 

There it was. The pain behind his eyes. Mike had been feeling it more and more lately. A bottle of scotch was in front of him before he knew it.

Matty rolled his eyes. “Great. Drink, Dad. That fixes everything.”

“It’s so I don’t blow your goddamn head off,” Mike mumbled, taking a glass out of the cabinet.

“I’m moving out in a month, and you’re going to waste it being drunk and ignoring me.” Matty was standing now.

“I’m doing the best I can!” Mike slammed the bottle down, still not having poured it. “What do you want from me, kid?” 

“What do _I_ want?” Matty pushed his father back, Mike surprised at the amount of force generated from his lanky son. “I want a dad that talks to me! I want a dad who eats dinner with me, instead of camping out in front of the TV. I want a dad who doesn’t leave the house randomly in the middle of the night. I want a dad who actually gives a shit about me!”

“You think I don’t give a shit about you?” Mike spat. “Do you have any concept of what I’ve risked for you? Just tonight? Do you have any idea what I’ve done for _you?_ What I still do, day in and day out?” 

All those times he took money under the radar. All those times he’s protected his own name, his own reputation. It’s all been for him. 

“Everything I do is for you! To give you a good life. To give you a chance. To make you better than I ever was!” His eyes were stinging. “And I’m sorry I have to do it alone.”

His words hung over Matty. His son’s muscles relaxed, eyes turning wet.

“She left me too, Dad.”

“... Matty—”

It was too late. His son pushed passed him.

“Matty, wait.”

Footsteps traveled up the stairs. A door slammed.

***

“Here ya’ go.”

Oak wood creaks open, revealing Mike’s guest room. The girl, or _Ava_ \- that’s going to take some getting used to - stands motionless in the doorway, observing the decor which, even Mike admits, is completely contrary to the rest of his home. Soft pink sheets, various throw pillows, and a quilt, all resting on a handmade bed frame. The room had been made up with his granddaughter in mind, but the need for Kaylee to stay the night had never come up. Until then, the door had remained closed. Even the carpet is lacking footprints since the last vacuuming. 

The feminine furnishings have caught Ava off guard. She stares quizzically at the room, clutching her plastic bag of belongings to her chest, still silent as the car ride from the motel. The confidence and light that was emitting at McGill’s has been snuffed out. 

Ava looks at him, swaying on her heels.

“Go ahead.”

She breaks the barrier and steps on the carpet, watching the imprints of her shoes appear as she paces around, hugging the walls. 

“If you hate it, don’t worry,” Mike assures. “It’s temporary.”

Her voice is small. “No, it’s... It’s great.” One of her hands rubs the back of her neck. “Who was that guy?” 

No sense in lying to her. “An informant for Fring.”

“He works for Lalo Salamanca?”

“Unwillingly, yes. Did he say anything that upset you?”

“Only that Lalo wants to skewer me. But what else is new.”

Ava throws the comment away like it’s nothing. However, Mike ruminates on the idea, remembering the disaster from a few months ago with the wire transfer employee. He leans against the doorframe, rubbing his chin. 

“Those guys in the truck. You knew them?”

“I knew the truck,” she mumbles.

Mike shrugs. “Well, Varga’s been chasing leads on Herrera and Fuez. If they were working for Amarante, it makes sense they’d be watching him. Find out what he knows.”

“But he knows about me, right?”

The girl shrinks to the wall, glancing at the window. Her face is white like before, her lower lip trembling as her arms constrict the bag. Shielding herself. It was something Mike’d been thinking about, but Varga won’t betray Fring. Not with his father on the board. Even then, Amarante’s guys came disturbingly close to seeing her. 

“Hey, kid. Look at me.”

Round, dry eyes turn to meet him.

“Nothing’s going to happen to you. I promise.”

Ava bobs her head.

“You’re safe here,” Mike says. “Do you believe me?”

It takes a moment. “Yeah.” 

“Good.” Mike shifts his weight. “Now, are you hungry? Huell said you hadn’t eaten anything all day.”

Her mind searches for the right answer. “I... Um...”

He gives her the option. “You can say no. Out there, I’m your boss. You have to do what I say. But when we’re not working, you can say no. I’m not gonna force you to do anything.”

“Okay.”

“So, honest answer,” Mike says. “Are you hungry?”

“Are you cooking it?”

“Yeah.”

“Then, no.”

Mike’s stunned. “What?”

“You made me breakfast that one time at the ranch,” she says, a smile twitching on her lips. “I don’t think it’s ever digested.”

Mike concedes. “Fair enough. Good night, Ava.”

The smile appears at the sound of her name. And Mike has to admit, it suits her well. He feels a familiar warmth spread in his stomach, one that is usually accompanied by trips to the zoo or long drives home from school. It’s appearance in this scenario, though, feels foreign. Uncomfortable. He shuts the door and it vanishes. 

Bright and early was his promise, but Mike can’t find the strength to settle down. The shaking in his hands, the desire to hold his weapon in them, it’s growing and growing. He paces around the living room, checking the windows to the street, and finding it empty. No matter how many times he checks, his mind’s not satisfied.

If Varga could find them so easily, what’s stopping Amarante’s men? 

He drove around Albuquerque for thirty minutes, taking different turns, random routes, trying to ensure there was no tail on them. Mike double checks the perimeter of his house. All locks are secure on every door and window. He blocks out the light from outside, closing blinds and curtains, until the house is dark. Even then, he can’t relax, ruminating on Lalo, how he managed to kill a civilian in broad daylight. How Varga could easily find them in the motel. Break into the room. How _he_ could be followed, and not notice. Varga, possibly the most paranoid of them all, with the most to lose.

Defeated, Mike sits on the couch. Sleep isn’t going to come tonight. 

The television lulls sporadic jabber, its blue light shining on Mike, resting his palm on the grip of his gun. The news plays. They found that patrolman that went missing. Immolated. The whole crime scene reeks of Cartels, both with its spontaneous nature and its efficiency. Varga had mentioned something about him. Commercials intercut. The same ones over and over. A clock ticks away.

Sleep comes, but forcibly. 

For one moment, Mike is hearing the same commercial again, reciting and cringing at the dialogue in the dark. Then he blinks, and the curtains are glowing a soft, golden light. 

He checks his watch. 6 AM.

Nothing feels rejuvenated. His back has new kinks, and his eyes feel dry and heavy, possibly sporting another set of bags. He massages them, leaning over to his knees for support. The joints in his spine crack and shift, adjusting to their natural position. Mike drags his fingers down his face, waiting for his vision to clear, and catching a glimpse of something pink on the floor. 

He blinks a few times. There’s an unconscious heap near his feet, curled up underneath a pink and gold quilt, which rises and falls with every breath. A head of dark hair rests on a couch pillow, turned away from him.

Mike had promised bright and early, but he lets Ava sleep. Just for now.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The next few updates will be sporadic and almost every day for the next few days. This chapter was originally longer four times as long, and takes place over the course of a longer period of time, so for better flow, I split it up.


	15. Serpientes en la Hierba

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> No wealth, no land, no silver or gold  
> Nothing satisfies me but your soul
> 
> "Oh, Death" performed by Jen Titus

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This week's update starts at chapter 14. 
> 
> Santisima Muerte or Santa Muerte - "Holy Death" or "Saint Death"; Mexican folk saint, who is not endorsed by the Catholic church. Prayers or rituals to her are usually taboo and practiced in secret. The Cousins pray to her in Breaking Bad.

Sand crunches under smooth tire treads. Two pairs of boots, snake skinned and skull tipped, step together out both sides of the silver Cadillac. Almost in unison, the two men stand together, taking in the sight of the shack several dozen yards ahead of them. A hot breeze blows through the brush, welcoming the disciples to the altar.

The dirt is crawling with other patrons, on their knees and elbows, their stomachs scraping the bottom of the desert floor. As one mind, they join them, unconcerned about their silk suits. Creeping through the sand as the bugs and diamondbacks hum their hymns to Santisima Muerte. Rocks, broken glass, and all manner of sharp objects dig into their bodies, but they stay their course, unflinching and undeterred. 

The journey to the altar is long and grueling on their muscles, but they both know it is necessary. She always demands sacrifice, both physically and temporally. 

Once at the Altar, the other patrons step aside. The two are frequent visitors, and respected disciples of Santa Muerte. They stand up at the gaping mouth of the shack, dusting off their suits and wiping sweat from their brow. Flowers and other offerings line the mouth. 

The inside offers little respite from the desert heat. Gentle flames flicker on top of melting wax. Flowers and other offerings surround representations of Santa Muerte, as most visitors are poor, they’re more sentimental than valuable. Family trinkets, bottles of liquor, and even toys sit amongst the dried wax. 

Leonel lights a candle, while Marco retrieves the offering from his pocket. He places the stack of pesos in the offering dish, and the two bow their heads in prayer. 

They pray for justice, and that those who’ve wronged the Family may be punished. 

They pray for wisdom to find the person responsible. 

They pray for strength to overpower their enemy. 

They pray for stealth, that their presence will go unnoticed.

Santa Muerte has never let their prayers go unanswered. 


	16. Days Out - Uno

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "1977" by Ana Tijoux

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This week's update starts at chapter 14.

“Here. Take this.”

The command takes a moment to register, as the caffeine hasn’t caught up with Ava quite yet. An extra hour of sleep and a cup of coffee did very little to give energy to the girl. She still turns slowly, stretching her jaw out in a long, catlike yawn, before taking the object in his hands; a small, red notebook, worn and scratched from repeated use. She pulls out the cheap bic in the spine, still yawning. 

When she finally stops, she asks, “What’s this?”

“We got five stops,” Mike tells her, holding up a matching set of fingers and keeping his eyes on the freeway. “Write down directions, landmarks, anything that will help you remember where they are, and how to get there.” He emphasizes this next part. “But make sure it’s things only you will understand. Got it?”

Another sleepy nod. “Yeah, I got it.”

“Also, note the time.” He taps the notebook in her hand. “Never get to it before that time. Got it?”

“Yeah, yeah.” She flips through the notebook finding a blank page. “Pick ups? Is this what Gustavo wants me to do?”

“Part of it. It was Victor’s idea.” _He was sick of doing it himself._

Her head scans the outside of the car. “Is he the tall one or the asshole?”

Mike stops himself from chuckling. “The asshole.”

A tan truck speeds past their car, shooting for the exit. Ava shrinks into her seat, holding her breath until it’s off the ramp. 

“Do I get a gun?” 

Mike responds, “We’re just driving. Why would you need a gun?”

“Because your Salamanca rat found me after like, what, seven hours?” Ava grumbles, hugging one of her legs to her chest. “I dunno. It would make me feel better.”

“You don’t need a gun. I have a gun.” Mike glances at her. “That make you feel better?”

“No,” she replies sardonically.

The pick up route is long and dull, weaving in and around the desert wasteland. Ava sits motionless next to him, alert and tense, until they leave the city limits and enter the long, empty backroads Mike knows by heart. At first, Mike relishes in the hour long silence. Once or twice, he had been forced to take ride-alongs by Fring, either on pick ups or other tedious chores. Usually punk kids low in the ranks, ones that need to be kept out of trouble, or trained in the system. Each was their own headache, griping about the monotony of the work or Mike’s silence. 

Ava never complains, reaches for the radio, or even asks for water. She keeps her eyes set forward, any turn they make, she marks down. Mike should be grateful. At first he is, but when they arrive at the first spot, things change.

The windmill creaks and moans above the old shack, turning slowly with the morning winds. The farmhouse itself is one good gust of wind away from completely collapsing. The girl hops out as soon as the car halts. Mike takes a few seconds longer to emerge, and by the time he does, Ava’s slamming the trunk closed, holding the shovel by her waist. 

“Where’s it at?” she asks.

“... This way.”

As Mike leads her to the spot, Ava starts to pick up her pace. Soon, she’s a few feet ahead of him, tapping around the ground with the tip of the shovel. He doesn’t even have to point out the plank of wood, the one covered in a thin layer of sand. She spots it, wedging the shovel beneath it and uncovering the hole. The fabric bag is tossed at Mike’s feet.

Impressed, Mike unloads the cash, and returns the bag to the hole.

“Okay. On to the next one.”

They’re in the car, and Mike hands her a bottle of water. 

“Drink up,” he says. 

As the day drags, it becomes more and more obvious to Mike. Ava’s done this kind of thing before. Each spot she discovers herself, almost like she knew it was there. Or that she just knew the signs to look for. She struggles to lift everything she picks up, but never complains. Ava even recovers the spots convincingly, like they were never disturbed. It would impress him more, if he didn’t understand why. 

Ava had admitted that Amarante disclosed things to her, things that he wouldn’t tell anyone. Not even Narvaez, his second in command. Mike assumed that their relationship was strictly possessive and sexual. Abhorrent, yes, but nothing more. A prize, or a toy that he kept to himself and occasionally shared. At least, that’s what Fring’s led him to believe. Now Mike’s not so sure. 

After the third pick up, the two sit together on the hood of the car, Mike silently sipping on his water while Ava slowly nibbles on her pimento cheese sandwich. The hot desert wind blowing on his face. Hot, dry, colorless. He had learned to despise the desert. He imagines snow, the fields and hills in front of him covered in tall, dark green trees. A thick, white blanket of snow enveloping every surface. The air wet and bitter, soaking into your skin and gnawing on your bones.

He glances at the girl, her eyes looking somewhere nonexistent. She’s not imagining snow, or some distant, innocent memory. Not an argument with a parent, or a fishing trip, or even a birthday. Nothing but possession, slavery, abuse, neglect, and anything else Mike’s colorful imagination can drum up. 

“You ever been up north?” Mike asks, breaking the quiet. 

The question catches her off guard. “No. You?”

Mike nods. “I’m from Philly. I used to hate it there.”

That’s as far as the conversation goes. Ava doesn’t push it any further.

Maybe Amarante had grown tired of that shallow and heinous relationship. Or maybe he’d grown attached, or trusting, and desired something more. Maybe Amarante was working her. 

Maybe that’s how Fring knows her, she wasn’t just his possession.

Maybe she was an apprentice.

And Mike’s just repeating the cycle. He sips his water, shoving down the emotions that are surfacing. One’s from a phone call years ago, from a desperate son seeking guidance, only to get disappointment. 

No, he can’t let himself feel that. He shuts those down.

He’s got a job to do.


	17. Days Out - Ocho

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "Feel Good, Inc." by Gorillaz

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This update starts at chapter 14.
> 
> Pruebalo, puta - "try it, bitch"
> 
> Fentanyl - a pharmaceutical opioid used for anesthesia, often cut with heroin and cocaine, but occasionally used in the manufacturing of crystal meth for a higher quality batch.

“When am I gonna’ get a gun?”

The face of Mike’s watch says 3 PM. “You’re still on this?”

Off to his left, Ava pivots on the ball of her foot and leaps onto a large rock. The motions take a lot out of her, and she gasps with exertion. “Well, it kind of comes with the trade, right? Like, if I was a fireman, I’d need an oxygen mask or an axe or a Dalmatian or something.”

The absurdity of her words make his head turn. She’s standing at the base of the red cliff on top of a pile of boulders, observing each step she takes with her arms extended outwards. With a flat expression, he watches as she leaps from the lowest boulder to the highest, landing on a single foot, her ankle almost buckling under her weight.

Mike waits for her to regain her footing. “What the hell are you talking about?”

“Y’know, firemen have axes,” she pants, swinging the phantom tool. “And Dalmatians.”

Shaking his head, he sighs. “I worked with firemen for twenty years. Not one of them had a Dalmatian.” He catches her biting her cheek and rolling her eyes. “And if you’re good at your job, you won’t need a gun.”

“I’m a drug dealer, Mike. I need a gun.”

Now Mike rolls his eyes. The _drug dealer_ leaps again.

“You are _not_ a drug dealer. You’re a _courier_. You don’t sell.” He sweeps his gaze up to her on the boulders. “And you’re not a mountain goat, either. Get down from there before you break your neck.”

With youthful defiance, she steps down into the dirt. “What’s the difference between selling them and transporting them from A to Q?”

“Several things.” _Risk, jail time..._ The list goes on and on. 

“Why don’t I get a gun?” she presses. “I’ve used one before.”

“Because everyone thinks guns automatically make you invincible,” Mike drones. “They’re a crutch and they draw attention. You get too excited, too impulsive, you’ll get trigger happy. You wanna be discrete, you wanna be smart, a gun should be your last resort.” He points at his head. “This is your primary weapon. You use this first, and a gun last. Like you did at the motel.”

“I didn’t have a gun then—”

“You won’t always have one,” Mike interrupts. “So learn how to get by without one. Then we’ll talk.”

He relaxes once again, resting his back on the car, tucking his hands in his pockets. 

“That’s another way of saying ‘I’m not giving you a gun, Ava’,” she mumbles.

“Damn straight.”

The sound of a car engine turns both their heads towards the distance. A gray van emerges from around the cliffs, bouncing on the terrain and kicking up clouds of dust. 

He checks his watch. 3:05. “Right on time.” 

Ava runs to him, bristling like a threatened house cat.

“Steady, drug dealer,” he teases blandly. “Don’t show them you’re scared. They’ll use it against you.”

The van approaches them slowly, driving over sagebrush face its windowless side towards them. The engine cuts, the tires stopping, and three men climb out of the hole that appears in the side. All pasty caucasians, clad in dark colors and leather, with Eastern Orthodox tattoos covering all available flesh. One more gets out from after them. He’s at least six inches shorter, with clear, markless skin and short black hair. He walks up to the pair of them, a white smile peaking through his trimmed beard. The three hunks of muscle stay behind him.

“Good afternoon,” Mike greets.

“Likewise, my friend.” 

The man’s accent is a thick Eastern European. Mike doesn’t know his name, and vice versa. They don’t use names for this job. To him, he’s just called the Serbian. 

The Serbian gestures to Mike’s companion. “Is this the new one?”

“That is correct.”

The bearded smile turns directly towards the girl. “Not Gustavo’s usual taste.”

Ava flexes her jaw and swallows. Much to Mike’s pride, there’s no fear in her eyes. She seems to focus it all into her fists, which are tucked behind her back. Out of sight, white knuckled, and shaking. 

“I guess I’m more unassuming,” she tells him, not a hint of emotion in her voice.

The Serbian chuckles. “This is true. Follow me, Miss.”

He beacons her with his hand, strolling towards the back of the van. Ava looks at Mike hesitantly, and he gives her an assuring nod. Shrugging her shoulders, she follows the Serbian to the back of the van, avoiding the sharp gazes of the guards who open the trunk. Mike joins them a few feet away, observing their body language. 

The back of the van holds cardboard boxes, all marked with green writing that reads _Georgia’s Finest._

“Six boxes,” the Serbian explains. “No more, no less, for your Chemist.”

Ava looks quizzically at the boxes, raising her eyebrow at the cans of peaches. The Serbian chuckles again, this time at her confusion. 

“Unassuming, isn’t it?” he muses, removing the cardboard lid from the nearest box. He pulls out a few of the cans to reveal bottles underneath a false bottom. The Serbian holds one up to her, letting the label catch in the sunlight.

The girl looks quickly at the bottle. “Fentanyl?”

“High grade, still factory sealed.” He tucks it back in the box. “Will not affect the purity, and it will give it a good kick.”

All six boxes fit perfectly in Mike’s trunk. Ava’s panting at sweating by the time they're loaded. He leans close to her, whispering, “Check to make sure there’s not any missing.”

Ava nods and starts removing lids and cans, counting under her breath. Mike waits, staring at the Serbian. Once the old man’s gaze becomes too uncomfortable for him, the Serbain turns his attention to Ava, staring at the much younger girl’s backside. Mike bristles, his hands itching for his gun.

Ava finally stands up straight. “There’s three bottles missing.”

“Are you sure?” Mike asks in a low voice. 

“Yeah. I’m sure.”

The Serbian doesn’t seem affected. “Is there something wrong?”

“You’re short three bottles.”

He shrugs. “We had a run in with a couple junkies. They got away with some of the product. Occupational hazard.”

In disbelief, Mike’s attention is drawn towards the large men behind the Serbian. The stand unflinching as bugs swarm and drink at the sweat forming on all their heads, almost dead.

“Junkies got the drop on you?” Mike emphasizes.

The Serbian shrugs again. 

Mike leans towards Ava. “Take $10,000 out of the bag.”

She nods and goes to the back seat of the car. The Serbian’s pompous smile finally disappears. 

“That is the cost of nine,” he declares.

“You get lazy and sloppy, there’s a fee. That’s the deal.”

“Once it leaves the distributor, the sale is final,” he says. “ _That_ is the deal. Anything that happens on the way is out of our control, and we are not liable for it.”

“You give me what my employer paid for,” Mike retorts, voice getting sharper. “You don’t, you don’t get paid in full. Nature of the business.”

Ava’s holding the cash bag, eyes darting back and forth between the two of them. “I took $10,000 out,” she tells him.

“How do I know that _you_ are not fucking _me_ over?” the Serbian snarls. He points a finger at Ava. “For all I know, this little slut is lying so you won’t have to pay me the full amount.”

“Check the box yourself.”

Straightening his jacket, he stomps over to the trunk, checking each box individually. There are, in fact, three missing, and he pulls away, grinding his teeth. 

“Three missing,” Mike reiterates. “$10,000.”

The Serbian looks to Ava, eyes traveling up her body. “She could have them on her.”

A hand extends to yank her away, but Mike stops it, stepping in front of the Serbian. 

“You wanna keep that arm?”

He’s inches from his face, staring him down, until the smaller man backs away. 

Behind Mike, Ava pipes up, _“Pruebalo, puta.”_

The Serbian steps back, holding up his hands. “Make her show her pockets.”

Ava turns out the pockets of her jeans and jacket. Nothing.

“Satisfied?” Mike says. 

The guy glares down at Ava. “Not necessarily.”

Mike tosses the money at him. “Next time, use more than half an ass, and you’ll get the $10,000.”

The Serbian shouts something in a language Mike doesn’t understand. All four of them climb into the van as the engine revs up, and the vehicle disappears back down the same road. Ava lets out a gasp, holding her chest.

“Holy shit,” she exclaims. “Mike, that was badass!”

Hiding his smile, he begins to reassemble the boxes and cans. He waves his hand, and Ava joins him, placing the false bottom into the boxes. 

“I gotta’ see these pricks every month?” she asks.

Mike shuts the trunk of his car. “We see them every month.”

She goes to the passenger side. “Y’mean, we do this one together?”

“You wanna do it alone?”

“Not unless I have a gun.”

Mike smirks. “Yeah, not gonna happen.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Might be taking a break again soon. Getting sad again.


	18. Days Out - Quince

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "Pretend I'm Not Here" by Dave Porter

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This update starts at chapter 14, but now it's done, and I might take a break. It's been a rough week, and as John Mulaney would say, “Life is a fucking nightmare.”

The shot ricochets off the cliffs, returning to Mike’s plugged ears. Through the scope, the green bottle remains untouched, not even swaying from the bullet slicing through the air nearby it. The small body next to him sees it too, releasing the tension in her shoulders with a growl, her head dipping towards the dirt.

Mike lowers his scope. “Again.” 

Ava goes back onto her elbows, assuming the position. The rifle is more than half her size, and the kickback sends her stomach sliding backwards on the sand. Sand explodes yards behind the small green dot. She breathes a quiet curse across the ground.

“What was it that time?” 

“You blinked.”

“There’s bugs,” Ava grumbles, swiping at her forehead. “How am I not supposed to blink?”

Without missing a beat, he adds, “It’s not the bugs. You’re flinching.”

“This thing is a jack hammer. When will I ever use this one?” She rubs at her eyes, dropping the rifle in the dirt. “Can’t we just go back to the hand gun? I can’t sneak this one around in my car.”

_You’d be surprised._

“Don’t make excuses,” Mike tells her. “It doesn’t do you any good. Now, you control the gun. Don’t let it control you.”

“It’s _huge_. How can I—?”

“You’re already anticipating the shot. You blink, you lose the target for a fraction of a second. That loss of time will cost you a killshot. It’s the same principle, no matter what gun you’re holding.” He looks at her, waiting until she takes notice, before continuing. “You wanted to shoot. You need to learn how to shoot, no matter what gun you’re given.”

Taking in a deep breath, Ava lowers her head until she’s peering through the scope. She squeezes the trigger, trying to keep herself from wincing at the loud shot. Even with her eyes remaining open, she still misses. 

“Damn it.”

“Steady hand,” Mike repeats, possibly for the twelfth time that afternoon. 

“I _am_ steady—”

“No, you’re not.” Mike can hear the sand moving under her elbows. “You’re shaking, holding your breath. You inhale, find your target, pull the trigger on the exhale.”

Ava inhales. She fires again, but nothing happens.

“Shit.”

For a moment, he forgets who was in the dirt next to him. “Language.”

“ _Shit.”_ she says louder. “This is stupid.”

 _For Chrissake._ No one’s whined this much since Matty. “It won’t be stupid when the person down the scope has a gun on your partner. When that happens, you won’t want—”

Without warning, she fires again. 

The bottle explodes in a burst of broken glass. A proud smile twitches on his lips, and when he sees hers, he lets it grow. 

“Hell yeah!”

Mike pats her on the shoulder. “Good job. Should have no problem hitting the next one.”

The annoyed expression on her face has lessened, and she readies herself for the next target. Mike watches through his scope as Ava works her way down the line of bottles and cans. The time between misses is decreasing, and they don’t pack up until she doesn’t miss a shot. The sun is creeping towards the horizon, and they head back to the car. 

“How about dinner?” Ava asks, slinging the rifle into the trunk. 

“Whatcha’ feeling?”

“I’m feeling Indian.”

He hates Indian food. It disagrees with his stomach. “Let’s do it, but first thing’s first.”

Mike reaches into the trunk, removing a heavy red bundle that fits in his hand. He holds it out to Ava, who takes it with a suspicious glance. 

“What’s this?” she asks. 

“You earned it.”

She unwraps the towel. A black revolver glints in the sun. Long and thin, with skulls carved by hand into the wooden grip. Ava’s hand trembles as she lifts it up, her eyes growing wet.

“Kept it after El Malpais. Figured you deserved to keep it.”

“Mike... I don’t know what to say.”

“Say you’ll pay for dinner, kiddo.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This story ended up being a lot longer than I anticipated. I thought it was going in a certain direction, and then when it came to it, it felt wrong. I’m trying to write for me, but it’s getting a little hard to do that. I know it’s long and boring, but if anyone wants me to keep going, let me know.


	19. Que Vuelva Ya

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Dile que la quiero (tell her that I love her)  
> Dile que me muero (tell her that I'm dying)  
> De tanto esperar (from so much waiting)  
> Que vuelva ya (let her come back)
> 
> "Noche de Ronda" by Agustin Lara

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> TRANSLATIONS:
> 
> Refresco - soda  
> "Duele mucho, mi hermano?" - "does it hurt, my brother?"  
> "Estoy bien" - "I'm fine"  
> "Quién fue?" - "Who was it?"  
> “El conductor huyó. No los vio.” - "The driver ran away. He didn't see them."  
> "Ella está junto al conductor. Por ahí.” - "She's by the driver. Over there."  
> “Deberías sentarte.” - "You need to sit down."  
> Mirala - "look at her"  
> 

The fire from the overturned semi had long since died down, but black plume still emanated from the wreckage, rising above the scene and into the bright blue sky. Based on the scorched earth, the point of origin had been underneath the trailer, next to the back wheels. Disproving any theory of the fire being caused from the wreck. The sage and weeds near the trailer were ash on the sand, small embers still burning in the hot sun. Accelerants had been poured underneath with the hopes of spreading to the engine, which might as well have happened. That would’ve meant no cleanup. 

Vaas seethed at the sight, his hands propped on his hips as he chewed the inside of his cheek. Raul had already gotten the scene under control by the time he arrived. His slim, weary looking friend stood in the midst of the carnage, barking orders at the men as they clambered through boxes and shattered bottles of _refresco,_ their shoes melting from the searing heat. One by one, boxes were discovered to be empty. 

The drugs were gone. Stolen. Amongst the stench of burning rubber and kerosine, there was an absence of a floral aroma, one he could smell anywhere. The thieves had made away with the cocaine, but hadn’t realized the other product lying beneath it. That product made a scent, too, one much more powerful than the kerosine.

Flesh. Burnt human flesh. 

Vomit now covered the sand. Unable to stomach the smell, his men waded through it, plucking corpses out from the compartment underneath the trailer. Crumbled, small bodies were wrapped in plastic and placed in the truck for disposal. 

The rancid stench moved easily through his lungs, barely causing his eyes to water. The sickening feeling growing inside wasn’t nausea. Millions of dollars in product, gone. 

What’s worse, he almost lost Raul.

Vaas stooped down, picking up the shattered neck of a _refresco_ bottle. Hot to touch, but he still turned it over and over in his hands, removing the prints on his fingers, then allowing it to rest uncomfortably inside his palm. He coiled his fingers around it, the sharp end sticking up like a dagger. 

Footsteps approached him, staggered and uneasy, with heavy breaths in between each one, until his friend stood next to him, sweat pouring down his pale face. A long, red crescent was forming on his forearm, reaching from elbow to wrist, reeking of the same stench as the bodies.

 _“Duele mucho, mi hermano?”_ Vaas asked. 

Raul shrugged him off. _“Estoy bien.”_

_“Quién fue?”_

_“No se,”_ Raul responded, squinting at the sunlight. Or at his wound. _“El conductor huyó. No los vio.”_

The glass almost shattered, but Vaas kept his cool.

_“Y?”_

Raul hesitated for a moment. _“Uno escapó.”_ He nodded his head towards the two hostages. _“Ella está junto al conductor. Por ahí.”_

He glanced over his shoulder. Two figures were bound and gagged, on their knees in the sand, trembling like it was frigid, not scorching. The amount of people circling around, Raul hadn’t bothered to keep a gun on them. There was a mutual understanding between them; they’re not going anywhere. 

_“Deberías sentarte.”_

There was a small eye roll. “I said I’m okay.”

“Then, _vamanos.”_

Vaas sauntered over to two hostages, and the both of them straightened up. The thin, salt-and-pepper haired man started bawling, face wrinkling and contorting as tears and snot and saliva soaked his gag. The other hostage, the smaller, more feminine one, avoided Vaas’ gaze, staring downward at the sand, their shoulders rising and falling rapidly, but soundlessly. Vaas wasn’t too worried about her. His attention was on the driver.

“You.” He pointed at the crying man. “ _Cucaracha._ Get up.”

Raul had to pull the guy to his feet, wincing in pain as he did, then moved to stand closer to the second survivor. _Avoiding the splash,_ as he would say.

“You see that shit?” Vaas’ voice was soft. “That shit, right there.”

The wreckage was forced into the driver’s line of sight. Vaas stepped aside, gripping the back of the man’s neck, pushing him forward. The gag was removed.

“What did I tell you to do, _pendejo?_ What’s the _one_ job I gave you?”

The driver sputtered, “Th—They—”

Vaas interrupted him. “Don’t stop the fucking truck. One fucking job. That’s all you had to do. One _fucking_ job. Don’t. Stop. The truck. And definitely don’t _crash_ the truck. I don’t know why that’s so hard for you to understand.”

“They… They knocked it over,” the driver sniveled.

“I’m sorry, what?” 

The driver took a deep breath. “They knocked it over.”

A mocking look of comprehension appeared on Vaas’ face. “They knocked it over.” He bobbed his head. “You hear that, Raul? They knocked it over.”

Despite his urging, Raul refused to engage. He never enjoyed toying with people, as much as his friend. Slightly disappointed, Vaas clicked his tongue, then struck the driver’s knee with his heel. Bone cracked, and the man crumbled to the ground, crying out in pain and dissolving into sobs.

“They knocked it over! Did you hear that?” Vaas turned to look at the second survivor. “They knocked over the truck, _mamacita._ But I mean, you would know. You were in the goddamn truck.”

The second survivor remained silent, while the driver continued to wail and writhe on the ground, trying to clutch his leg with his bound hands.

“What is this? What is this pussy shit, Raul?” Vaas glanced back at his friend, who stood silently, before kneeling and grabbing the man’s face, waving the shard around for the driver to see. “Why do we have pussies driving my trucks? _Mirala.”_ He jerked the driver’s jaw, forcing him to look at the other hostage. “That _gatita_ has bigger _cojones_ than you. She ain’t saying shit while you’re giving me a headache.”

He pulled the gag back over his mouth.

“I’ll give you credit, though. You didn’t completely fuck it up.”

Brushing sand off his knees, Vaas waltzed over to the second survivor. She trembled as well, but her face was blank. No tears, no emotion. Vaas knelt beside her, removing her gag and tilting her face towards his, finding that he liked it. 

He liked it a lot. 

It wasn’t her or dark hair or round lips, not even her delicate jaw that fit perfectly in his hand. It was how she stared at him, unimpeded. Unafraid. Not even blinking. Keeping her tears within her bright eyes that somehow matched the desert in color. Unscathed from the wreckage. Not a visible scratch on her.

“You are one lucky _puta_ ,” he whispered.

There it was. The first emotion. 

_Anger_. Vaas couldn’t help but laugh. 

“Well, you _are_ lucky, _mi alma_ ,” Vaas said. “Because I’m going to ask you a question. Tell me what you think. Honest opinion. You think that this guy—” he gestured with the shard at the weeping mass on the ground “—deserves to live?”

The driver sobbed harder, pleading underneath the gag. The girl blinked, turning her gaze away.

“No, no, no.” Vaas pulled her to her feet to embrace her from behind. Her head fit perfecting under his chin. “Look at him.” 

He had to hold her head steady. 

“This coward left you behind,” he whispered into her hair. “He knew you were in there, and he left you. Left you to burn alive. Raul hadn’t pulled you out, you’d be dead. Just like them.” He points to the truck, now full of bodies. “You probably heard them screaming. Probably won’t ever forget it. That’s his fault. You understand?”

Something wet dripped onto his hand. 

“Tell me,” he said. “Should I be merciful? Should I forgive him?”

She didn’t answer. The man thrashed harder in his restraints.

 _“Shut up!”_ he snapped, before returning to his gentle tone. “Do you forgive him, _Nena?”_

Her throat vibrated under his wrist. “N-no.”

The driver wailed. 

“Shut up!” Vaas roared, tossing her aside. _“Shut the fuck up!”_

The glass shard silenced his scream. Unable to make a sound, the driver writhed and squirmed as Vaas hacked at his neck. Even after the man stilled, succumbing to the blood loss, Vaas kept going, until nothing connected the head to the body but bone. Only then did he sit back, panting and resting his hands on his knees. His own blood flowed from a fresh wound on his palm.

“Fucking bitch. This was a new shirt.”

He wiped at his face, smearing blood on his forehead. Glanced back at the second survivor, she was cringing into Raul’s chest, not wanting to look at the scene. Vaas stood up, wiping blood onto his pants. 

_“Lo siento, Nena,”_ he gasped. “No way to behave in front of a lady.”

Raul’s voice was bored. “Are you done?”

Vaas nodded, taking the girl’s face again, turning it more gently towards him. Blood smeared on her cheek, and his thumb caressed her round lips until they were scarlet.

“She might know something,” he muttered. “Put her in the trunk.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks to everyone who waited.  
> I'm back. Let's do this.


	20. Days Gone

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> I know the further I go  
> The harder I try, only keeps my eyes closed  
> And somehow I've fallen in love  
> With this middle ground at the cost of my soul
> 
> Yet I know if I stepped aside  
> Released the controls you would open my eyes  
> That somehow, all of this mess  
> Is just my attempt to know the worth of my life
> 
> "Mercury" by Sleeping at Last

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> TRANSLATIONS:
> 
> Cabrón - asshole, douchbag, etc.  
> "Me gusta estar contigo, de esta manera. Como una pareja normal." - "I like being with you, in this way. Like a normal couple."  
> "Puedes decirlo" - "you can say it"  
> "Recuerdas lo que has hecho" - "Remember what you've done"  
> Compañeros de mierda - piece of shit friends  
> "Es un psicópata puto" - "he's fucking deranged"  
> Recuerdas que - remember that  
> Cállate y escúchame - shut up and listen to me  
> Baja eso - put it down  
> Ahora - now  
> "Y sabes que yo también lo haré" - "and you know that I will, too"  
> Dame - give me

The (temporary) Law Office of Saul Goodman and Associates had been recently upgraded from the back of a nail salon, to a dumpy office space the size of a closet. The citizens of Albuquerque were undeterred by the small space, inconvenient location, and lack of a functioning swamp cooler, so Ava sits shoulder to shoulder with strangers. _Civilian_ strangers, the one type of person she hasn’t learned how to speak to. Observing them is like looking through a glass wall at the zoo. All different colors and types and smells _,_ and all trying to look like they don’t give a damn. Except for the young mother, her squealing child, and the teenage boy that keeps looking at Ava’s thighs through the rips on her jeans. Ava finally covers them up with her satchel, her throat dry.

“Ms. Sangrado?”

The name’s still so foreign, the receptionist has to call it three times before Ava realizes it’s her. When she does, she practically leaps out of her chair and runs to the front desk, away from the crying baby and horny teenager. Her satchel nearly knocks the reckless driver in the knee.

Ronda the receptionist starts her spiel before she’s even in her presence.

“Third consultation fee is $500.”

“...Now? I haven’t even been consulted yet.”

Ronda blinks behind purple rimmed glasses. “Mr. Goodman changed it when we got the new space.” She ads, a little quieter, “Just play the part, hon. The bureaucracy’s a bitch. Cash or card?”

Nervously, Ava sets her satchel on the desk, angling it away from the prying eyes of the lobby. Carefully, she removes five $100 bills from a stack within her satchel, wordlessly sliding them towards Ronda.

She plucks them up with long, plastic nails. “Thank you, Ms. Sangrado.”

Ava awkwardly drums the wood of the desk as Ronda fills out the required forms. 

“I see you took my advice,” she mumbles. “That color really brings out your eyes.”

“Yeah, well… It’s nice not to look twelve, anymore.”

Ronda smirks. “The public masturbator sure thinks so, too.”

Ava looks back over her shoulder, and the teenager’s face snaps back down at his magazine, cheeks turning the color of his shirt. Ava feels hers do the same out of mortification.

“Don’t worry, Hon. You can do better,” Ronda assures. She points towards the door. “Go ahead.”

Saul Goodman’s in full form when she walks in, pacing in the minuscule space behind the desk. The blue and green tie around his neck is as loud as his voice, discussing some case with some client, with vague enough detail that Ava begins to suspect the call is fake. At first, he pretends not to notice her, continuing to walk around and flap his hands, something that annoys the silent Huell, wedged in the corner in a chair that’s _not_ meant for him. He greets her with a warm smile and a wave, then snapping back to glare at Saul. 

Ava slides between the desk and the large chair in front of it, her knees touching the cocobolo wood when she sits down. Saul finishes up the conversation, and Ava’s even more certain it was fake.

“Ava Yelena Sangrado!” He announces proudly with a clap of his hands, before taking a seat. “You look lovely on this fine Wednesday morning.” He gestures to her face. “Wearing makeup, I see. You finally look a day older than your fake ID.”

Huell kicks his seat. Saul looks annoyed, then shakes his head. While she watches silently, the lawyer takes a tablet of aspirin and dry swallows, releasing a sigh of relief. 

“Sorry. Still in character, I guess,” he says. “My last client, lovely lady. Divorced thrice -” he holds up three fingers “- is suing her second husband for the cremated remains of their Schnauzer Delfie. You try dealing with that, and tell me you don’t have a migraine for three days.”

The dynamic of Saul Goodman and Jimmy McGill is something Ava hasn’t gotten used to. To save her some confusion, she’s always just referred to him as Saul, despite the lawyer shelving the character when she’s around. The other clients outside might respond better to the flamboyant, loudmouthed, crooked attorney of Saul Goodman, but not Ava. Jimmy knows he can put him away and just be Jimmy McGill. She can tell it gives him some relief. Acting like a different person for eight hours a day, especially one that repulsive, sounds exhausting.

“I had to wait an hour,” Ava huffs.

Saul dips his head to the side. “Well, business has been growing. Can’t say I’m mad about that.”

“An _hour._ Next to ‘drunk and disorderly’ and ‘public masturbation’.”

“Hey, I’m not at liberty to discuss my clients charges,” he says back, almost reciting it from some pamphlet. “... But you’re actually not that far off.”

“I thought I had, I dunno, special privileges or something.”

“I got you in today, didn’t I? Last minute, too. That’s special privileges, right there. And I know you and our… _Mutual friend_ have certain expectations, but I can’t just drop everything in the middle of the night and meet you behind a 7-Eleven. My wife likes to sleep in the same bed as me, and I wanna keep it that way.”

“Have you found them yet?”

It had been weeks since she enlisted the lawyer’s help in finding Raul Narvaez’s sister, Josefina. And only two since they discovered Josie Narva Fuez lived in Santa Fe, New Mexico, _not_ Las Cruces. Though she had barely changed her name, her current life and identity was anything but suspicious. A registered nurse at East Valley General Hospital. Widow. Mother of two; Freddy, who was eleven, and Mia, who was six. But that wasn’t the end of it.

No one had heard from the family in a while.

The corners of Saul’s mouth wrinkle. “Look, kiddo,” he starts. “The hospital that Josie works at finally reported her absence to the police. An official investigation has been launched, and since it involves missing kids, the FBI has been called.”

Ava’s stomach drops. 

Saul continues, “The official report - and I mean _official,_ it’s from the SFPD - says that the Fuez’ were going to Mexico to visit family, but there’s no record of any of them crossing the border…”

At some point, the lawyer’s voice drowns out, and she just sits there numbly, letting the story be lost to the room. She just stares down at her hands on her satchel, watching the fingers shake. Seeing red again. 

A family is missing, and the sadistic voice in her head says, _It’s your fault._

Of course, she doesn’t know how innocent Josie is. Driving across the state to pick up payments from her brother said she definitely wanted distance between herself and Raul. But that had to mean she knew what kind of man he was, and how he was earning his money. Blood money. That makes her guilty of something, both morally and legally. But the kids?

Saul has paused. “Are you with me, Kiddo?” 

Ava nods slowly. “Yeah. Sorry.”

“... Can I ask how you knew them?” he presses, the lines still prominent on his face. 

“I didn’t. I just...” She searches for the right words. Ones she can say without losing herself to the nightmare. “I owed them something.”

At this point, he knows not to press further. It’s a losing battle.

“Well,” he says, trying to regrow his smile. “There’s gotta be something else I can do for you. Who do you wanna sue? Your landlord? Or how about your legitimate employer? There’s bound to be some form of sexual harassment history there—“

“What about that cop?” she interrupts. 

“... You wanna sue a cop?”

Ava quickly shakes her head. “No, that guy. The cop that was killed a while ago.” Gary Stevens was his name. She researched the case after that Varga guy mentioned it. That was dripping with Vaas’ involvement. Only he was fearless enough to break the Kiki rule. 

“Oh, the state trooper guy?” Saul chuckles, before leaning across the table and lowering his voice. “Did _you_ do that?”

“What? No!” she exclaims. “I just… I think I know who did. Could I give his family the money? Like, wire transfer or open a trust or something.”

“Any chance you’d just, I dunno, tell the police who did it?” proposes Saul. 

The glare she gives him is enough to shut it down.

“Just a suggestion. You seem _very_ bound and determined to get rid of this money. Most young people - good god, I sound like my father - when given a substantial sum of cash, prefer to keep it. And spend it on things.Like a couch, or clothes, or a car. You know. _Things_.” 

His words cause Ava to sit back in the chair. “I’ve bought things. I bought a guitar, and a couch. I… It’s just—I can’t spend it all.” It was a rule. Never live beyond your apparent means. “There’s too much. It will look suspicious. Mike told me not to.”

“Suspicion can be avoided, if you deposit gradually.” He reads her unsure expression. “How much is _too_ much, Ms. Sangrado? Is it a metric ton, or a shit ton? Because there’s a legal difference.” 

With Huell dozing off in his chair and Saul being kept in suspense, she plucks a pen from the coffee mug on the desk. Ava scribbles the number out on a stationary pad, uncertain of how many zeros are involved, and opting to just write the word. She hands the pad back to a nervous Saul.

His eyes bulge out of his head. “You’re shitting me, right?”

“No.”

“What the hell—” he drops the pad like it’s on fire. “How do you... Did you _steal_ this?” Saul interrogates. “From _him?”_

“ _No._ ” Not from Gustavo Fring, and not _technically_ stolen. 

Huell’s paying attention now, leaning forward with interest.

“How, in the Kentucky Fried hell, did you get all this?” 

“You’re my lawyer,” she claps back. “I thought you wouldn’t want to know.”

“No, no, no. We agreed that if anything threatened my safety, or the safety of people I know, you’d have to tell me. Full disclosure, we agreed.” He stops her retort with the point of a finger. “And I’ve been doing this long enough to know that _this_ number,” the same finger jabs at the paper, “reeks of bad, bad, very _goddamn_ bad.”

“McGill, lemme see the damn number,” Huell mutters, waddling over to the desk, taking the stationary pad. “You’re getting all steamed up over—” His eyes lock on the writing. “ _Shit_. Baby girl, y’all serious?”

Flustered, Saul snatches the pad out of his hands. “Great. Now Huell’s complicit in… Whatever the hell this is now.”

Ava stutters, “I thought you do this all the time? Y’know. Morally flexible.”

“For tens of thousands, yes,” he says. “Maybe a few hundred. Last time I dealt with a number like this, I got shot at, stranded in the desert for two days, and drank my own piss. And I’m not about to go through that again. Have you ever been shot at?”

Sarcastically, Ava yanks her shirt collar down to expose the circular scar on her shoulder.

“Sorry, that’s on me. But look, Kiddo, this,” he gestures back and forth at the two of them, “relationship has some risk. You are a very young, single woman, with no known family. You clean crime scenes for $9 an hour. You try to do anything, _anything,_ with this money, you even try to _move_ it—”

Ava clamps her mouth shut. She _has_ moved it. Gradually. Though it was nowhere near a location that she was comfortable with. But Saul doesn’t need to know that. Might give him an aneurysm. 

“—and you will light up every single radar imaginable. DEA, IRS, all of that will be up your ass, and everyone else you associate with. And with you being followed—”

“Wait, how do you know about that? I never told you that.”

Saul exhales. “Huell told me. As you should’ve.”

Ava shoots her gaze at Huell, who just shrugs.

“That was one time, and they weren’t following me.” At least, she thinks they weren’t. “And it hasn’t happened since.”

“All I’m asking is for openness. Honesty. I’m not going to judge you. Trust me, I’ve defended _way_ bigger assholes than you. Just, most of them don’t have a 747 sized price on their head.”

“But can you do it?” she presses. “Get them the money?”

“Have you been listening to me? Huell,” he turns in his chair towards the mountain of a man. “Have I been speaking Urdu or something?”

“Please, Saul - Jimmy, just…” Ava starts unloading stacks of money onto his desk. “I’ll give you this. Just tell me what I can do. I have to do this.”

Saul immediately starts stacking them back up, shoving them into his desk drawer. “Good God, you’re just carrying it around with you?” He stares at the label. “Wait. How much is this?”

“Twice as much as last time, plus a - a tip, I guess.”

Saul sighs in exasperation. 

“Please, Jimmy."

The lawyer holds the last stack in his hand, before tossing it aside. “Trust funds are always an option. You can give them the money, and they will be eternally grateful, I’m sure. But, listen. Kiddo, listen to me.”

She makes it a point to look him in the eye. 

“This apparent, y’know, _guilt_ thing you got going on, it’s not going away. Trust me. You can drive down the street, throw every stack of cash at every poor, disabled, homeless veteran you find, but it’s not going away. You know what I think? You should take this.” He pushes the stationary pad over to her. “Take this magic number, pay off whatever debt you owe, and get the hell outta Dodge. Screw the old man, the chicken guy, all of them. Just leave. Start over. I hear the Florida Keys are nice.”

The proposal’s so outlandish, she doesn’t entertain it for a second. 

“No. No, I can’t.” Ava pushes herself up. “I have to go.”

She bumps the desk as she stands, knocking over the mug. Pens spill across the surface. Saul quickly tries to gather them before they roll onto the floor.

“Sorry,” Ava fumbles trying to turn the mug upright. 

Saul bats her hand away. “It’s fine. I got it.”

He looks back up at her kindly. 

“I’ll see what I can do,” he tells her. “But I’m prioritizing our safety. Me and you. If it’s going to bring too much attention, I say look into offshore bank accounts. Or burying it in the woods.”

“Thanks, Jimmy,” she says sincerely. “I mean it.”

“Don’t mention it. I’m serious. Please, don’t.”

***

It’s not Mike who meets her for the job.

Every job or errand or task had been with Mike. Sure, occasionally the two have been accompanied by whichever henchmen or disposable goon was available, but Mike was always present. Always by her side, and Ava preferred it that way. As she pulls into the park and ride, the comforting black Chrysler is absent, replaced with a man leaning against the silver hood of a Cadillac escalade. The permanent sour expression on his face is in full bloom, and Ava hesitates before stepping out of her Volvo.

“You’re late,” Victor tells her.

She checks the digital watch Mike had given her. “It’s 4:02.”

“That’s late.”

Ava shields herself with the open door. “What are you doing here?”

Ignoring her question, he walks around his Cadillac, opening the passenger side. “Let’s get this over with, _chicita.”_

“Where’s Mike?” she inquires, not budging.

“Gus had work for him. Let’s go.”

The news is a kick to the gut. Ava can’t hide the eye roll or the exasperated, rebellious teenage growl that rumbles inside her throat. Especially after the meeting with Saul earlier, the last thing she wants to do is spend a minute with Victor. The twenty something enforcer had made it clear from _day one_ that he loathes her, and after a while, the feelings became mutual. Mike had admitted he didn’t like Victor either, but gave her a lecture about respecting authority. Liking someone and respecting them, he had told her, are two different things. 

All she has to do is respect Victor. Nothing else.

With resignation, Ava gets in the Cadillac.

Many nights alone, down in a hole or in her empty apartment, Ava thought she knew what “painful silence” was. When it’s so quiet, your thoughts become so loud, it’s like they’re in the room with you. Tormenting you. Shaming you. Feeding you whatever lies or truths it takes to drive you insane. To push you closer and closer to the ledge, to see if you jump off. Or fall.

She _thought_ that was painful silence. 

After twenty minutes in the car with Victor, she’s contemplating jumping onto the freeway and letting a semi finish what another started. Ava couldn’t think about the missing kids from Santa Fe. Even her dark thoughts don’t want to join the ride, staying silent, despite plenty of material to use. Though his eyes are on the road, his judgment is focused on everything she does. Crossing her legs, moving her hair, scratching at the nicotine patches under her sleeves. It’s like getting teeth pulled without novocaine. 

Actually, that might be better.

When they pull off at an exit towards the northern part of Albuquerque, Ava can’t take it anymore. 

“What’s Mike doing for Gus?”

The answer’s immediate. And infuriating. “If he wanted you to know, you would.”

“Is it the names?” she presses.

After she had given her soul to Gustavo Fring, she gave him a list of names; all the people Vaas had ever come into contact with, on both sides of the border. And, just like with Saul Goodman (until today), she’d never heard another word about it. Gustavo was just bound and determined to keep her as a pack mule. 

“What did I say?” he snaps. 

Ava obeys for exactly thirty seconds. “... You don’t know what they’re doing, do you?” 

The look on his face threatens to bring a smile to hers, but another silence settles between them. This one was less painful, Ava relishing her small triumph over Victor. She itches absently at the patches on her arms, suppressing her smirk.

“I didn’t know you smoke,” he remarks. 

The triumph evaporates. She yanks her sleeve down, covering her forearm and the two patches that are stuck to her skin. Ava hadn’t anticipated the cravings returning. Some study online (the internet’s gotten much bigger in her societal absence) said that cravings linked to trauma won’t come back. Apparently the source was bullshit, because the itching and shakes were getting worse. Her body craves a fix, but she refuses to give in. The nicotine patches were a compromise, seeing that the alternative is NA meetings.

Thankfully Mike hasn’t noticed. Or at least said anything.

“I don’t.” 

Victor flexes his jaw. “Gus doesn’t work with junkies.”

“Good thing I’m not a junkie,” she mumbles.

_You sure about that?_

The voice has been getting louder. Ava shoves it away.

The Cadillac arrives at their supposed destination. A train yard, far outside of town, and so old it’s only used as a pull through station. Anymore errands and Gustavo’s going to run out of anal recesses to send his donkeys to.

“Can you at least tell me what we’re doing?”

He huffs. “That shipment of fentanyl? The one that was missing the bottles at the pick up?” 

Vividly. “Yeah. The Russian guy was ripping us off.”

“Serbian. It happened again. Some piece of shit got it off our Chemist.” Victor’s speaking to her like she‘s competent, at least. “He’s been selling it on the street for a pill a pop.”

“Is it the same guy?” 

“Doesn’t matter. We found who it is. Gus wants me to take care of him.”

“Okay, let’s go.” She opens her door.

“He wants _me_ to take care of him,” he repeats, reaching across to shut the door. Victor starts climbing out. _“You_ stay here.”

Ava leans over to shout at him. “You’re going to just leave me in the car? I’m not a shitzu!”

“That’s debatable,” he jabs, slamming the door in her face.

Stubbornness takes over, and she gets out, striding after him down the alleyway. “Gus wouldn’t ask you to do something like this alone,” she insists. “That’s ridiculous. You don’t even know how many guys are in there!”

“Two.”

“Victor, c’mon.” She has to jog after him. “They’re pawning opioids. This place is probably crawling with smackheads. You try to walk out of there with a bag full of heroin _alone—“_

Ava nearly crashes into Victor’s chest when he jerks around, stopping dead in his path. His face makes her recoil. A look she’s seen before from Vaas’ men. One word away from a punishment, and there’s a large chance Gustavo’s given him permission to be physical if she steps out of line.

“I’ll manage,” he growls. “Just shut up and do what you’re told.”

She doesn’t follow him anymore.

***

When she finally came to, Nena saw stars. 

A large rectangle was opened in the wall, giving her a glimpse into the dark expanse of space. Mixes of bright, neon purple and green nebulas, speckled with yellow and orange stars, burning brightly and intensely against the blackened sky. It almost looked like it was moving and shifting, swirling around like a Van Gogh painting. Nena hadn’t seen anything so beautiful.

Euphoria held her closely, slowly fading with each inhale, though not as intense as she was used to. Something recreational, like eating M&Ms after tasting Belgian chocolate cake. Though it was preferred to anything else. After a few minutes of slow blinks and heavy breaths, the drugs weakened enough that the stars and nebulas were street lamps and neon signs. The gaping hole into space was an open window, letting the cool, desert night breeze waft across her face. A few more moments and she felt another breeze against the back of her neck, rushing through her hair.

The heavy arm that draped across her was covered in tattoos. Religious imagery, skulls, anything to bury the severe scarring underneath. Raul’s chest rose and fell rhythmically against her back, his bare skin enveloping her in some disturbing lover’s embrace. The way he breathed and moved said he was asleep. Probably dozed off after…

Nena squeezed her eyes shut, trying to hold onto the euphoria that was getting weaker and weaker. Once that wasn’t enough, she imagined she was somewhere else, somewhere far away. The man spooning her could be anyone, any other man. As long as her eyes were closed, she could imagine it was someone else. A man she actually loved _._

At least Raul didn’t make her feel it.

Eventually, a stirring from behind broke through the fantasy. Raul sighed and stretched before sliding away, the sheets rustling as he sat up. The blankets almost fell off her, but he was kind enough to cover her again. 

_“Que hora es?”_ he muttered to himself. 

Nena didn’t move. The bed shifted as he stood up. Nena retreated further into the sheets, hearing the friction of fabric and a zipper. It did nothing to prevent a hand from nudging her shoulder.

_“Mi alma, despierta.”_

Sighing in defeat, Nena rolled over to face Raul, now dressed from the waist down. Frustration clouded his voice.

“Dante is gonna be another two hours.”

Nena sat up, keeping her body covered with the blankets. Raul walked around the bed of the hotel room, snatching the bottle of mezcal he had abandoned earlier. He poured it into a lowball and took a painful gulp.

“Why?”

 _“No se._ Probably Ricardo.” He rubbed his eyes. “I don’t know why he still keeps that _cabrón_ around.”

There was barely any emotion in her voice. “... So, again?”

Raul glanced back at her, staring quizzically as she picked at the track marks on her arm. It took a few moments before he understood. “No, no.” He took another drink, emptying the glass. _“Estás bien?_ You don’t look good.”

No, she felt sick. Very sick. Every motion and sound churned her stomach. But she nodded her head.

“I’m fine.”

“You don’t look fine.” Raul took her face in his hands, pulling her eyelids apart with his thumb. “ _Son las drogas?_ ” 

Probably. “No, I’m fine. Really.”

The concern didn’t leave his brown eyes.“ _Tienes hambre?_ ”

“No.” 

That was the truth. She hadn’t eaten for twelve hours, but with the gurgling in her gut, she probably couldn't keep anything down. Whatever that tweaker down the street was selling, it definitely wasn’t kosher.

“Don’t lie to me,” he said. “ _Necessitas comer._ ”

Thirty minutes later, Raul sat with Nena, now reclothed, at the table in the corner, nibbling on a slice of pizza he had ordered. Something with everything on it, that smelled greasy and heavenly, though Nena could only handle a few bites. Raul eyed her as she ate, taking liberal sips of a new glass of mezcal, chest still bare.

She took a bigger bite, hoping to appease him.

“This is nice. _Me gusta estar contigo, de esta manera.”_ His voice was soft as he fidgeted with his lowball. “ _Como una pareja normal.”_

The pizza almost came back up. 

He kept going. “I want to do this more. Get you out of that cage. Give you a real room. Would you like that?”

Nena just wished he’d stop talking. Had Vaas heard anything he just said, he would kill him. Hell, if he knew anything that Raul had just done to her, without his permission, Raul would be drawn and quartered. 

“Dante is your contact,” she said, trying to change the subject for her sake.

Offended, Raul sighed. “He’s my _cuñado.”_

“...You two are related?” 

“By marriage. But we shouldn’t talk about that.”

He took another sip of mezcal.

“It’s why I’m here, isn’t it?” she asked, putting the slice of pizza down. It sat like a rock in her stomach, gurgling and desiring to spew all over Raul’s lap. “You two are planning something. About Vaas.”

He chewed his lip.

“I’m not stupid,” she said, her voice strengthening. “I know you think I am, but I’m not. Something’s going on.”

“I know you’re not stupid.”

“Then tell me what you want from me.” Her boldness took him aback. “I’ve been good. I’ve done what you asked. I’ve let you drag me around the desert all day. Just, please. Tell me what you want.”

Raul considered it for a moment. _“Quiero que comas.”_

She pushed the box away. “I’m not hungry.”

 _“Eres muy delgada,”_ he said, voice sharpening. “Vaas doesn’t feed you enough.”

Feeling her frustration rise, she reached for her glass of water.

_“Puedes decirlo, Nena.”_

“He takes care of me.” It’s her conditioned response.

Raul scoffed. “Is that what he calls it? Keeping you like some pet rabbit? Playing with you when it’s convenient for him? Forcing you to play house, play _narco,_ then leaving you starving in a hole?”

It’s true. He only fed her, gave her things, made her comfortable, if she played along. Went on with his sick games and fantasies. Not even fantasies like Raul apparently had, where they’re some sick, pseudo-romantic couple that has dinner and drinks wine and fucks. Vaas’ included teaching her things about his business. Training her like a dog. And it was happening more often.

“You can be mad, Nena,” he told her, softening his voice. “I want you to be mad.”

She finally looked him in the eye. 

“ _Recuerdo lo que has hecho, para Vaas._ What he’s _done_ to you. He tortures you, he _beats_ you, he lets his—his _compañeros de mierda_ fuck you, just for fun. And calls it _training._ "

Her teeth ground in her mouth.

 _“Es un psicópata puto.”_ He settled back in his chair. “A monster. _Recuerdas que.”_

Her voice was slightly above a whisper. “... Then what are you?” 

The lowball glass hurled past her head, smashing against the floor. Raul bristled, but kept his breathing steady, trying to remain calm. 

“I’m trying to _help_ you. Help us both.” He rubbed the back of his neck. “Maybe I should give you more.”

“No. I don’t want it.”

Her newborn deviance was a shock to him. “You’re upset—”

Nena stood up, nearly knocking her chair over. “What the hell am I doing here?”

Raul shut his jaw tight. A dark shadow passed over his face, and Nena suddenly understood.

She shook her head. “You can’t.”

“We’re done,” he growled. _“No mas.”_

“It won’t work.” Nena backed away from him. Everything inside her was screaming to run away. “I’ve tried. He’ll know—“

He stood up. _“Nena, cállate la boca._ ”

“He’s smart. He’s smarter than you. He’ll know something’s up. He probably already knows—”

A hand clamped onto her throat. Raul slammed her head against the wall, and the stars returned. Nena clawed desperately at his forearm, scratching the tattoos and burns. He squeezed her jaw so tightly she couldn’t open her mouth to scream, hot breath huffing and rabid eyes boring into her face. Her bare feet scraped across the carpet, trying to find some surface to stand on. Trying to breathe. Trying to beg.

The rage faded. He loosened his hold and she sank down the wall, gasping and coughing. Raul still kept his hand on her cheek, cupping it gently, and wiping away the tear that escaped as she struggled to refill her lungs. 

_“Lo siento,”_ he whispered. 

Nena stifled the terrified sob in her throat.

“You’re right. He’s smarter than me.” He paused, swallowing dryly. “Except when it comes to you. He trusts you. More than anyone. That’s why we need you to do it.”

Nothing inside her head can rationalize what he’s asking her to do. Everyone from Bogota to Tijuana will know. Vaas drops dead, who are they going to blame, but the little plaything he kept against her will? Who he’s been tormenting for years? All she can do is resist, deny, _resist._

“No, he’ll know,” she croaked. “He’ll kill me.”

“No, he won’t,” Raul held her shoulders in a sign of dominance, not affection. _“Cállate y escúchame._ You know what he’s like. His father’s dying. He will be in charge—”

“They’ll know it was me.”

“They won’t hurt you. I won’t let them.”

She shook her head again, and he jerked her shoulders.

 _“Escuchame._ This is going to happen, and we need you to do it. Just shut up, and do what you’re—”

A loud buzz cut him off. They both looked at the table. His phone vibrated, the screen lighting up blue. Raul let her go, not bothering to look at her. Nena massaged her jaw. 

Raul held the phone up to his ear, and his face drained of color. 

_“Esta todo bien, mi hermano?”_ he asked, trying to keep his voice strong. _“Tue pérdida también me duele.”_

Her blood ran cold and the room started spinning. 

_Vaas._

***

Victor’s not back yet, and she can’t shake the feeling that’s gnawing deep inside her gut.

What’s there to worry about? Victor’s capable, smart, and a gigantic asshole. If he wants to go into an asbestos ridden, Reagan era nightmare alone, that’s his choice. Who is she to stop him?

Still, Ava can’t shake the feeling that something’s wrong. It’s taking much longer than it should have. With the hot sun beating down and no shadows to retreat under, her shirt is soaking wet. The windows of the warehouse give her plenty of exposure, and a few times she’s certain a head has ducked out of sight, just as she looks at it. It makes the gun in her waistband a whole lot heavier.

Thirty minutes and Victor hasn’t returned. 

There’s no more denying it. Faces are watching her from across the vacant lot, peering through the dusty windows of the condemned train station. The Cadillac is locked, so there’s no taking shelter inside.

“Screw this.”

Ava follows the path Victor had taken, straight through piles and piles of rusted metal and broken glass. Inside the building, it’s almost twenty degrees cooler, but the moment she climbs through the window well, she nearly chokes on her breakfast. 

Covering her face and nose does nothing to block out the smell. The stench of feces and vomit is suffocating. No breath gives her lungs relief, and she pulls her collar up to her nose. Ava keeps weaving through the trash, kicking over boxes and decaying wood and oxidized metal, items that probably had some use years ago, but are reduced to urine sponges and graffiti canvases. The walls are barely holding up, covered in layers and layers of colorful, faded curses and tags.

When she exits the first room, she bites her tongue to hold in a scream. 

Dozens of bodies cover the floor, each looking in a different stage of decomposition. The most frightening thing is that they’re all breathing. Lungs expand and contract under prominent rib cages. Though most are fully clothed, all visible skin is coated in filth. Puss filled sores cover necks and arms. Moans and grunts fill the halls, though she’s not sure who’s making them. 

Sucking in her breath, Ava winds through the bodies, avoiding the shit and urine and vomit that soak the floor. Used syringes and broken bottles line the brown mattresses. The further in she gets, the louder she hears it.

Arguing, above her.

She keeps going, desperate to find the stairwell. There’s so many around her, and the grunting and moaning is becoming more apparent. She sees the culprit, lying consciously on a mattress with obscene movements underneath the blankets. Tears of horror come to her eyes.

The human skeleton pauses his grunts, turning to look at her. 

Ava freezes.

“You like to watch?” he spits. “Fucking slut.”

Moving much faster, the crowd of junkies starts thinning out as she weaves around the hallway, almost bursting through the door to the stairwell. Her shoulders heave against the closed door. 

_Breathe. Breathe,_ mija _. You’ve seen worse._

“I’ve seen worse,” she whispers to herself, wishing Mike was there.

_Keep going._

Taking a deep breath, Ava ascends, following the voices to the second floor. There’s a few sleepers there, but they seem less far gone than the ones in the basement. Less glass and debris, so she moves more soundlessly, following the arguing until she’s right outside a room, hiding behind an overturned couch next to the gaping doorway. The walls are rotting, already brought down to the frames and insulation, making it easy to hear what’s being said.

“What the hell, man?” demands a nasally voice. “Where’d you get this shit?”

Another man counters, “Just leave him with the smackheads, no one will know.”

“No, no, I’m fucking _done._ You told me you got this shit off some nerd, so who the _fuck_ is this guy?” Heavy footsteps echo as someone paces back and forth. “Is he one of Tuco’s -?”

“He’s not one of Tuco’s, _pendejo,_ ” snaps the other. “I told you, I don’t know who he is. He ain’t one of us.”

“Well, he sure as hell doesn’t work for the fucking chemistry department.”

Ava slides along the wall, inching closer to one of the gaps in the wood frames. Insulation and dust gather on her jeans. She peers into the room.

Victor. 

He’s unconscious on the floor, probably from a wound on his skull that soaks the dust. There’s a gag over his mouth and his hands are bound, but other than that, he looks alive. 

Ava breathes, “Told you so.”

When Ava turns her head, she freezes. Across the way, she sees a junkie sitting up on a mattress. Ava’s struck by how young she looks. Compared to the others, the girl’s the picture of health. Skin and hair still look youthful. She stares at Ava through strands of black hair, her amber eyes blinking emptily. Ava slowly raises a finger to her lips, and darts her eyes towards the gaping doorway. 

The junkie girl swivels her head, following Ava’s gaze, and returning back to stare at her. A mischievous smile grows on her pale face, and she nods, before lying back down.

Back behind the couch, she can barely see inside the room. The man with the nasally, panicked voice is tall and skeletal, with long, greasy brown hair that’s tucked into a beanie and a beak for a nose. The other’s a much smaller Latino being swallowed by his red hoodie, but her eyes are drawn to the giant semi-automatic slung over Greasy’s shoulders. He keeps pacing back and forth, swinging the massive weapon around weightlessly. Red Hoodie just stands still, leaning his back against a table with his arms folded. 

She can almost see his face. Ava scoots along the couch more, craning her neck until his face is visible. All those times she studied names and faces with Mike pays off.

Domingo Molina, AKA “Krazy-8”. _A Salamanca._

 _You gonna shoot ‘em now,_ mija?

Ava tucks her gun away. No, she wasn’t about to gun down a Salamanca. Not again, at least. But what the hell is he doing here? This wasn’t their territory. The fighting drowns out, and there’s more than just fentanyl on the table. The pills are there, sure, but there’s small bags of clouded crystal. Definitely not theirs to sell in this place, judging by the argument that keeps escalating. Small wads of money, of course, bound by rubber bands, scales, etc., it’s a stereotypical, amateur dealer’s workshop. 

Ava looks around, crawling towards the open window, feeling the eyes of the junkie girl watching her every move. The view gives her the aerial of the opposite side of the building, closer to the main road. A black Mustang sits in the shade, a white stripe making a really good bullseye.

The two continue arguing. Ava picks up a brick and throws.

It hits the target. The headlights flare up, the alarm screeching and drawing out the litany of curses that fly inside the room. Footsteps come out of the room just as Ava ducks back behind the couch. Two pairs, running down the hall and into the stairwell. Only after the door slams shut does Ava get up, charging into the room. 

She’s just crossed the threshold when the voice and Mike’s shout simultaneously inside her mind. 

_Corners!_

“Freeze!” 

_Fuck._

The blood in her veins obeys, and Ava pauses just short of the table, raising her hands above her head.

“Turn around.”

Cautiously, she turns, meeting the barrel of a desert eagle. A baby faced figure hides behind it, terror and rage swirling inside his blue eyes. A beanie is pulled far down his forehead, but she can tell he’s about her age, possibly younger.No older than high school. The kid’s so massive, he’s holding Victor up with one arm, keeping him steady with a knife on his throat, and a gun on the newcomer. Victor clings to the kid’s thick forearm, eyes switching between Ava and the gun that’s pointing right at her.

“Who the fuck are you?” he barks.

“Uh… I’m…” she tries to breathe. “I came to buy some—”

“Bullshit. You’re no junkie. So who are you?” He steps to the left to shepherd her away from the table. “You a narc? DEA?” 

“No, no. I’m not a cop. I swear.” Her voice threatens to waver, but she keeps it steady. _Con calma,_ Nena _._

“You work for Tuco?” he presses. “Nacho?”

_Lie, lie, lie. I taught you to lie._

“Tuco’s in prison,” she says flatly. “I work for Lalo.”

He blinks a few times. “... Lalo?”

“Yeah. Y’know, the guy in charge of all operations in the South Valley? That Lalo.” The lie has somehow given her calm. “And so does your partner. What does he call himself, Krazy-8?”

Victor winces as the kid tightens his grip on the knife. “Bullshit. I’ve never seen you two before.”

“You know _everyone_ on the payroll?” she jabs. “That makes sense. What, are you like, seventeen? Figures Krazy-8 would pay a kid to help rip off his boss.”

The rage has lost, and the kid’s starting to look frightened.

“Yeah, he knows,” she continues. Victor’s giving some expression that looks similar to ‘impressed’. “His product starts popping up outside the territory, of course he’s gonna notice. He’s not an idiot, like your partners. But what he doesn’t know is how long this has been going on.”

“I—I don’t believe you.” 

Victor grunts under the gag. A bead of blood runs down the knife.

“You should,” she says quickly. “Look, you’re young. Lalo doesn’t know you. This is your chance to get out of here. Me and my partner -” she nods towards Victor “- we’ll call this a misunderstanding. Let you go.”

Victor creases his brow, wrinkling his entire forehead. The car alarm has stopped, though with the ringing in her ears, Ava’s not sure when. Her heart beats against her ribs, but she keeps her voice steady. 

“ _W_ _e_ won’t come after you,” she says clearly. “Just let him go.”

The kid considers her words, before straightening his gun arm. “How about I just shoot you both?”

Ava follows the gun again, stepping to the left. “You don’t wanna do that.”

The way he’s breathing tells her so. His eyes are glistening.

“Let him go,” she pleads.

A tear falls, and the kid lessens the pressure on the knife. A small, fresh cut is on Victor’s throat. Ava lets out a sigh of relief as the gun slowly lowers away from her head. It’s almost completely down, before the kid stops, staring at something over her shoulder. He bares his yellow teeth in a gradual, relieved smile. 

Victor starts shouting into his gag.

Arms seize her from behind. “Gotchu, bitch!”

A hand covers her mouth as she screams, kicking and flailing in the grasp of the arms that drag her away, towards the table. Victor starts thrashing as well, undeterred by the knife at his throat. 

The nasally voice snarls in her ear, “I leave you for _two_ minutes—!”

“I had it under control!” shouts the kid.

“The hell you did.”

Ava manages to pry the hand off for a moment. “Get off me!”

Victor shouts something and receives a kick to the knee, knocking him down. The kid shoves the gun into the back of his head, and only then does Victor hold still. Greasy slams Ava against the table, the edge digging into her stomach. Pills and tiny bags of meth spill onto the floor.

“Now, who are you, sweetheart?” 

“Fuck you!” she spits.

“Oooh, this one’s gotta mouth on her!” he jeers, jerking her head back to whisper in her ear. “I bet you know how to use it, too.”

Using his elbow to hold her steady, he searches her jeans, yanking the revolver from her waistband and setting it near the meth.

The kid speaks above Ava’s shouting. “She said they work for Lalo.”

“They’re shitting you, Luke,” Greasy yells, petting Ava’s hair. “Dom showed me all of Lalo’s people. These two are just here for the dope.”

“Where’s Dom?”

“He split. Dickheaded coward.”

“What do we do?”

Ava squeals, “Get off me!”

“We still have the dope,” says Greasy. “And a bunch of tweakers downstairs willing to pay.”

“I mean about them.”

“Shoot the asshole, I don’t care.” Greasy effortlessly flips her around to face him, pressing his hips against hers. A hand goes up her shirt. “I’m gonna have some fun with this one.”

Victor starts howling again.

Something inside Ava switches on. Like an instinct, or muscle memory. Instead of fighting, she holds still, allowing the man to squeeze her wrist. Greasy leans close, digging his nails into the flesh of her back. He stares hungrily down at her, his skunk breath hot on her face as he gropes at the button on her jeans. The beak-like nose brushing against hers. 

Without hesitating or even thinking, Ava sinks her teeth into it.

Blood gushes into her mouth, triggering her gag reflex, but she holds fast. Each squeal and attempt to pull away only causes her to bite down harder. Bags of meth splat on the floor, a _clunk_ landing amongst them. 

_“You fucking cunt!”_

A fist knocks into her ribs, and she lets go, falling into the meth in a fit of coughs. Bloody saliva drips from her mouth. She looks to Victor, who’s managed to slip out of the kid’s grasp. The revolvers near the other side of the table, and she starts to crawl.

Greasy grabs a handful of her hair, pulling her onto her knees.

“I was gonna be gentle,” he snarls. “But now—“ 

Ava coughs, “ _Let me go_ , chicken shit!” 

He drags her backwards again, Ava kicking and screaming and clawing at his hands. A mangled face snarls down at her, blood spouting from the flesh hardly hanging on to bone. He hoists her up by the hair, and Ava barely sees the glint of glass in time to grab the window pane. 

Jagged, rough shards from a shattered window stick out like teeth. Greasy squeezes her neck, thrusting her head downward. Ava braces herself, trying desperately to hold her head above the shard, a battle she’s losing. He grunts behind her, trying to break her hold. 

The view down below comes into focus. There’s a person down there, standing next to a windshield-less mustang with a look of absolute horror. Domingo Molina stares into her eyes, before getting into his Mustang.

The hand tightens on her neck, and Ava refocuses on the glass.

“Imma bleed you, bitch!”

The shard’s just above her eye. Ava squeals, “ _Victor!”_

“He’s gonna watch,” he sneers. “Watch as we—”

His words are cut off by a gargled howl. The weight is lifted, and Ava crumbles to the floor. Still bound, Victor has his roped hands looped around Greasy’s throat. The junkie’s eyes bulge as he chokes, clawing and thrashing for Victor. Slumped and paralyzed against the wall, Ava watches as Victor and the junkie struggle for control, the AK-47 still swinging wildly on the guy’s shoulder. The glass that almost gouged her eye is still in her mind.

Movement to her left breaks her trance. 

The kid’s on the floor, nose broken and bleeding. He slowly climbs to his knees, his heavy gaze turning towards the struggle, then to Ava cowering against the wall. Finally, the blue eyes fall on the revolver near the leg of the table, and the knife just a few feet next to him. 

Ava pants, “Don’t.”

Almost immediately, he lunges for the knife. 

Ava leaps across the floor to the gun. 

The only thing that registers in her mind is the sound. The loud, deafening _pop_ that causes the red to spurt on the wall. Not even the trigger pull, or the smell of the discharge. Just the sound, and everything else becomes quiet.

The kid doesn’t fly back in a dramatic flourish, or slowly fall down to his knees before collapsing. He just drops, like someone pulled a rug out from underneath him. Like Dante did. He thuds to the floor, completely lifeless. Nothing, not even the snap of the junkie’s neck, makes her look away from the sight of a teenage boy with his head blown open.

Vaas’ voice speaks clearly in her mind once more. _I’m so proud._

Victor, now unbound, starts gathering the pills and meth, repeatedly glancing down at Ava. He drags the bodies around, rearranging the crime scene, writing some narrative that she doesn’t bother to follow. 

When he’s finished, he has to help her up.

Neither of them speak as they walk back to the car. Victor carries the duffle bag over his shoulder, watching his feet the whole time. There’s a large possibility that he’s concussed, but Ava doesn’t offer to drive. Doesn’t give him a hard time about being wrong, or about not knowing about Krazy-8. 

Ava doesn’t do anything. She doesn’t _feel_ anything. Just has the same thought running laps around her brain.

She shot a kid.

The passenger side of the Cadillac is opened for her, and she numbly gets in. The ringing in her ears stops as soon as the door shuts. And only seconds after the engine starts, Ava’s back at the park and ride, her blue Volvo reflected in the side view mirror. 

Victor puts it in park, and looks in her direction. For the first time, he’s not glaring. “You were right. I shouldn’t’ve gone alone.”

It’s Victor’s way of saying “thank you”, and Ava can’t even enjoy it. A long silence passes between the two of them, Victor eyeing the cars that drive by on the freeway.

“You good?” he asks. 

She shot a kid. She didn't even hesitate. Ava can't bring herself to form words. 

His lips smack before he talks again. “You had to do it.”

“I know,” Ava breathes.

“They were gonna kill you,” he says. “And God knows what else. It was him or you.”

“I know.”

Another small silence. 

“You know I have to tell Gus what happened," Victor explains.

“Yeah.”

“... No one else has to know. Not even Mike.” 

“... Okay.”

***

Muffled sounds of conversation came from the bathroom, the locked door shielding Nena from fully hearing what was being said. By the tone and speed, she could tell Raul was doing his best to not raise any suspicion. And damn, he was doing a pretty good job. Nena rested her head against the bathroom door, trying to understand anything. No comprehensible words, but it was clear. Rafa was gone, and there was no one to stop Vaas from moving through the Juarez Valley, besides the competing Cartels, which he could have handled in a year or two. Free to move on with the deal with Madrigal, if he could convince them. 

Free to expand _his_ product, not his father’s.

Nena hadn’t stopped shaking since Raul’s revelation.

Vaas is a cockroach. No matter how many times you step on him, he gets back up and crawls away. It didn’t matter what Dante, the mysterious brother-in-law, said to her. Nothing would convince her otherwise. The amount of times _she_ had tried, and been unsuccessful...

Even if it worked, all the king’s horses and all the king’s men would hunt her down and mount her head on a stick. Sure, Vaas had more enemies and incredulous work associates than friends. In fact, most would thank her for getting rid of him, but that’s only in Mexico. Colombia is a different story. Those guys in the jungle think he walks on water. 

They’d know immediately who’d done the deed. They’re not the judicial type. She’d be dead on the spot, or worse.

There’s _always_ something worse.

Raul could get her to do it. He was like that. He could get her to do anything, and make it sound like her idea. And who’s to say he _would_ defend her, at the end of it all? Nena would have no protection. She was nothing to Rosa Negra, just some side piece that Vaas kept around. 

She had to act, and fast.

The thought that came brought a shiver up her spine.

No one knew she was there, crouching on some shitty hotel carpet, in some godforsaken city in New Mexico. As far as Vaas knew, they’re both at the Villa, and Raul had definitely covered all his bases in sneaking her out. He probably fed the guards some lie as well, explaining his absence, and hers, and why it’s no concern. He was a great liar, and they were morons. 

A magnetism that she couldn’t resist drew her gaze across the room.

The lowball had shattered into large, jagged pieces. One formed a perfect, slender triangle, almost like a dagger. Nena crawled silently across the floor, taking it into her hand.

No, he would stop her. She needed something stronger. 

Tucking the shard into her sleeve, she made her way over to the dresser, yanking the drawers out one by one, trying not to make a sound. Raul spoke quietly in the bathroom, so quietly she could barely hear. 

There had to be more drugs. He wouldn’t have given them all in one go, or she’d be dead. There had to be more. Just one dose would do it. There was still some left in her system, she could feel it. One dose.

_Like Mom._

Tears of frustration built up in her eyes. The drawers were empty, nothing but the King James bible, the stupid phonebook, and -

Her hand froze above the open drawer.

_No, it’s too easy._

The revolver slid easily into her hand, the skull engraving caressing her palm.. It was heavy, more than half the length of her forearm, and a dark black that didn’t reflect light. Like it existed outside of their reality. 

She almost shook her head. It was too easy. It had to be empty.

It wasn’t. The chamber popped open, revealing seven bullets.

_It’s too loud. Someone will—_

The door opened behind her. Nena jumped from her crouching stance, whipping around to stare at Raul, backlit by the bathroom light. He looked her up and down, not realizing what was in her hand.

Once he did, his whole body went rigid. 

“Nena, what are you doing?”

He took a step towards her, but she didn’t move. She was paralyzed, unable to breathe, or even blink. 

_“Baja eso.”_

A hand extended towards her, the fingers trembling slightly.

 _“_ Nena _,_ _baja eso. Ahora.”_

He stepped towards her again, only this time, she stepped back. Almost subconsciously, her thumb moved, clicking the hammer down. The noise made it clear. She wasn’t going to obey. Raul slowly raised his hands, eyes searching for any other weapon around the room. All the muscles on his bare torso were tense, waiting for the gun to be raised, to be pointed at him. 

Except, Nena pressed the barrel into her chin.

For the first time, Raul looked afraid. 

“Don’t be stupid.”

He took a step towards her once more. She stayed still, pushing the barrel into her skin, pressing the soft spot underneath. It made swallowing the lump in her throat painful.

“You don’t want this,” he said softly, lovingly. “It’s a coward’s death. I know you’re not a coward.”

The tears flowed without any emotion behind them. For once, she wasn’t shaking. Her body was sturdy. Strong. Blood soaking the sleeve of her shirt as she clenched her fist, but there was no pain. Nothing else mattered but the gun, and Raul’s dark brown eyes as he pleaded with her. 

“You are a survivor. Like me. I’ve seen it. That’s why you’ve made it this far, why you’ve done what you’ve done.” His mouth is dry, and he has to run his tongue across his lips. “That’s why Vaas kept you. Because you want to survive, and you’ll do what it takes.” Raul put his hand on his chest. _“Y sabes que yo también lo haré.”_

_Closer._

“If you do this,” he pleads, “everything you’ve done, everything that’s happened to you, it means nothing. _You_ mean nothing.”

Nena shut her eyes for a second. A sob finally built in her throat. When she reopens them, he’s closer. Eyes so soft and youthful, she almost forgot her plan. Remembering his touch, and how gentle he kisses her, whispering kind, loving words instead of demeaning, domineering insults.

No. It’s wrong. She had to keep telling herself it’s wrong.

“But it can mean something. Just give it to me.”

Nena sighs, and he thinks he’s almost got her.

“I need you for this,” he said. _“Dame el arma.”_

He was just a few feet away, extending his hand out to her. The gun inched off her jawbone. 

_“Mi Alma, dame el arma.”_

She finally let her head fall.

_“AHORA!”_

The shout cut through her ears, Nena flinching like she’d been shocked. The resoluteness had faded, and she started hyperventilating, lowering the barrel until she could breathe properly. Tears spilled out of her eyes as she extended her hand out towards him, the gun dangling limply. 

He eagerly took it away, and she cast her eyes to the ground, letting a sob escape. 

_“Shh… Esta bien, mi amor._ ”

Raul opened his arms, stepping forward to embrace her.

 _“Esta bien._ ” 

The shard came out of her sleeve, and all she remembered was blood.

***

It was bright when she came home, but now she sits in the pitch black living room of her apartment. Honking horns from the busy overpass nearby cut through the silence and the ringing in her ears. Ava sits with her back against the couch, shattered glass and wet carpet around her, and a dizziness in her head. Though she remembers none of it. Everything blurred together after the job with Victor.

As the hours pass, the numbness fades away, and she feels sick. Not for shooting and killing a kid, but for not feeling guilty at all. 

She hugs her knees, staring blankly at the open hallway closet. Boxes upon boxes line her shelves, each from a different recycle bin or dumpster. Diapers, bags of chips, even condoms, but all holding the same thing inside. 

Even the couch she leans against, she can feel the stacks of money inside it. There is at least $500,000 in the couch. And the acoustic guitar, the one she can’t bring herself to play after years of dormancy, is filled with cash taped to the inner walls, rendering it useless. Everything she owns has Raul’s money inside. It took her _two weeks_ to haul it out of the desert, and now, she’s stuck with it.

Ava can’t stand the sight of it all. 

Why’d she even dig it up? She should’ve left it there. Should’ve set it on fire. But no, she _had_ to give it to Freddy and Mia, to appease some sick, twisted guilt, for killing their piece of shit uncle. Dante and Raul, maybe the only person who ever cared about her. Dooming two innocent children to death. Selling her soul to the next megalomaniac who offered her a chance to lie, steal, and murder all over again. Subservient to another criminal. Another murderer. 

The nicotine patches are peeled off of her forearms. Ava scratches her nails across the tattoo on her wrist.

The voice in her head is laughing at her, and she can almost picture Vaas' in the room, crouching to her level, a smug, devilish grin on his face. _Wow. You're_ way _more fucked up than I thought._

Ava tries to ignore him, scratching harder, trying not to think of the blood spattering on the wall behind the kid. Trying not to think about anything. But she can't.

She _killed_ a child. 

_Three. If you want to be technical._

“Shut up,” she hisses.

The voice doesn't stop. _But_ , _you're right. This one was fucked up. You didn't even blink. Just, bang. I'm impressed, Nena._ _I really am._

Ava digs her nails into her skull. "I said shut up."

_It's a shame it's all for nothing. Everything you've done, everything that brought you here, was for nothing._

“Shut. Up.”

_I told you. There's only one way out. One escape._

She wipes her eyes. "Stop it."

 _You know where to aim,_ _Nena._ He forms a gun with his fingers, holding them up to his temple. _Bang, bang._

A full bottle of Modelo is chucked at the wall, smashing into pieces. Cerveza drips down the plaster and soaks the ugly, sandalwood carpet. So that’s why the carpet is wet. Ava's wrist stings, and there's something warm on her nails, but she can't see it. It's too dark. 

Ava stares at the money until the sun comes up. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The Kiki Rule - Kiki Camarena was a real life DEA agent that was tortured and murdered by the Cartel. After his death, the DEA waged all out war and the Cartels took heavy losses. There's been a rule among the Cartel that you don't touch American agents in Latin countries, but it's not as observed anymore as it was in the 90s.
> 
> I was going to post this chapter LAST week, but it was so long, I wanted to make sure it was worth it. I even ended up adding more to it, and changing a lot of things. It gets to the same place, but the routes taken were different. So glad to have it posted finally.


	21. Plomo y Cianuro

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "Pop Muzik" by M
> 
> (Yes, seriously; this is the song Nacho's hearing)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> TRANSLATIONS:
> 
> "Tenías razón todo el tiempo, Papá" - "You were right all along, Dad"  
> Ametralladoras - automatic guns  
> "Ves algo?" - "You see anything?"  
> "Esto es todo?" - "Is this all?"  
> "Piso de arriba" - Upstairs

Nacho can’t pinpoint when his life became quicksand. 

It could be when Gustavo Fring stopped his attempt to assassinate Hector Salamanca, cornering him into being a rat. A spy for whatever that _loco_ Chilean has planned. Maybe it was further back, when Nacho plotted first to kill Tuco Salamanca, only to settle for prison. Or further still, believing that working for Tuco was better than being a potential target, only to learn that nowhere is safe from him, or any of them. 

Every day, he replays each choice, wondering which one was the genesis. Which one led to him standing on uneven ground, only to realize his sinking into the sand. Thick and deep, crushing his chest. Nacho doesn’t know if he should stop fighting, or fight harder. Swimming and thrashing only speeds up the process. But the sand is up to his neck. 

Soon, he’s going to drown. 

Weeks have passed since the Crossroads Motel. Discovering the red truck had been tailing him, and it wasn’t Gustavo Fring, but some unhinged, heartbroken _parcero_ with all the firepower in Medellin. And the cause of all this shit, the battered girlfriend, is now in bed with the Chilean. 

And Amarante knows where Nacho _lives_. 

Nacho hasn’t gotten a decent night's sleep since seeing that damned truck outside his house. Hell, he would’ve moved if he thought it would make any difference. Changing cars, downgrading to a sedan, did nothing to smother his paranoia. There’s no telling how long they’d been following him. Probably since the very start. At this point, they know his whole routine. Everywhere he goes. 

The only thing he can do, is act like he doesn’t know, and hope nothing happens. There’s been no sign of them since, but Nacho’s not comforted by that fact. Not at all. 

That’s why he’s avoided this place. He doesn’t want them to know.

The upholstery shop’s cream colored, small, and nothing special. Stuck on the corner of some dumpy street behind white, iron bars. It’s had many past identities, most still visible underneath the ten year old paint job. It was here before Nacho was born, and will be long after he’s left for the buzzards. The asphalt is uneven and lumpy, faded gray rather than black. Potholes and cracks had been filled by cement, rather than dug up and fixed. His father had always talked about getting it redone, but could never afford to. 

The sight of it stirs ancient emotions. Ignacio, prepubescent and small, being forced to come help after school. Working for hours until close every night of the week. Walking home, exhausted and spent. Doing homework before dinner and bed. Then repeat. The “American Dream”. 

School, work, sleep, repeat. Every day until he was sixteen. 

Nothing ever changed, except the family home. Eventually upgrading to something more suburban, close to a gringo neighborhood. Safer, better school. His father hellbent on keeping his sons away from the gangs. So far, Nacho’s the only disappointment.

The door to the shop opens right at 6PM. Same time every day. He was always punctual. Would never let Nacho leave a minute early. 

The tired, worn down visage of his father emerges, and Nacho’s overcome with childlike shame. Like he’d eaten something off the _ofrenda_ or lost his mother’s favorite jewelry. He shrinks behind the wheel, watching his father walk out with some kid Nacho’s never seen before. Small and gangly, like little Ignacio had been. 

His father pats him on the back, telling him something like “ _buen trabajo_ ” or “ _hasta mañana”_ before locking up the darkened shop. The kid scampers off without returning the gesture.

Part of him’s desperate to get out, to run across the street and tell his father everything he wants to hear, but mostly, just “I’m sorry”. 

“ _Tenías razón todo el tiempo,_ _Papá_. I’m so sorry”. 

The quicksand up to his neck, though. Anything he does could only pull his father down with him. 

Tonight it’s enough to see him. When it’s over, he may not get the chance again.

Eyes stinging, Nacho watches his father get into his old, beat up van. A breath shudders out of his chest as he drives away. And Nacho doesn’t move. Not for a long, long time.

Even when he does, he doesn’t remember. He’s suddenly at his big, empty house, kicking through scattered bottles of liquor and trash. Where it came from, he doesn’t know. He can’t remember the last time he was there. Amber left weeks ago, along with… Whatever the other two’s names were. It doesn’t matter. They never cared, anyways. Just used him for drugs. 

Maybe that’s why he kicked them out. Not paranoia about Amarante. Just tired of being used. By Lalo. By Tuco. By Gustavo Fring _._

Nacho can’t even keep his lies straight anymore. The lines are so confused, so jumbled, he can’t keep track of anything he needs to do.

Point Lalo to Amarante. Don’t let him find the girl. 

Don’t let _Amarante_ find the girl. 

Keep Fring updated with what Lalo knows. 

Don’t let either side know you’re working for Fring. 

He does all that, he can keep his head above the sand. Just for a little longer, but he’s been questioning if it’s even worth it. This girl’s so damn important, and no one will tell him why. It might not bother the old man, but it sure as hell bothers him. Last he checked, Mike didn’t have a psychopath posted outside _his_ home. He’s the one taking the most risks. He’s the one walking the razor’s edge. 

It seems easier to just give Amarante what he wants. 

He can almost hear his father scolding him for _thinking_ such a thing.

Nacho remembers her face. Young, but hardened. Broken. The world had already corrupted her somehow, like it had him at that age. Nacho was seventeen when he first fired a gun. Nineteen, when he first hit something. Never saw the body to confirm the kill, but didn’t need to. He had already come to grips with the rules of the game.

Them or you. Kill or be killed. For as long as you can.

That’s how it works. She knows that, and he does, too. The girl’s as good as dead, but Nacho won’t let it be his fault. He won’t let that weigh on his conscience. 

He checks his watch. One more hour. Tonight’s the night it starts. 

Lalo’s waging war on the Rosa Negra Cartel.

***

Shell Trucking Co. is familiar to Nacho. The logo regularly appears on the sides of semi trucks and moving vans all throughout New Mexico. He’s never thought anything of it, but as always, looks are deceiving. 

The main hub is outside Los Lunas, off the I25. A quick and convenient interstate that takes you all the way from El Paso to Buffalo, Wyoming. It’s perfect for the business, as Lalo said. Unfortunately, it’s not theirs. 

The anticipation turns to dread when they pull up beside the Shell Trucking building. Rows and rows of sealed garages are illuminated by floodlights, the only thing giving them a vantage point of the main building. It’s down the docking line, shielded by a few stationary red semis and trailers. All windows dark and dead, except for a single window that glows yellow. 

As they sit and wait, Nacho sees no movement behind it. Absolutely nothing. That doesn’t matter though, he’s already seen it parked near the door when they drove up.

The red truck with the bed covering. 

The license plate matches. Nacho checked the night before. He’d think it was abandoned, if it hadn’t disappeared during the daytime. As soon as the sun sets, the truck appears in the lot, then vanishes before dawn. Rising and setting like the moon.

Two other vehicles are present. That also sends him on edge. Three cars means there could be three guys, or fifteen, depending on _what_ exactly they’re doing here. And Nacho’s willing to bet Amarante’s stacked. They could be walking in on a small army.

This time, there’s no Lalo humming quietly to himself. No one laughing at Nacho’s anxiety, telling him to lighten up. It’s all on him. Nacho’s leading the charge against Rosa Negra, sending Lalo’s men - Lalo’s _family_ \- across enemy lines. The message they send with be partially in his name, and any losses will be one him. 

Lalo only told him one thing: “Leave the albino alive. You’ll know what I mean.”

The radio in Nacho’s hand buzzes. 

“ _Q_ _ué tienes?_ ” 

One of Tuco’s is on the other end. No Doze. Nacho remembers the name.

“ _Dos hombres. Por la puerta._ ”

“ _Armas?_ ” Nacho asks, already knowing the answer.

“ _Si. Ametralladoras.”_

 _Mierda._ Nacho clicks the radio, peering through his binoculars. It’s impossible to see from their vantage point, but it’s the only way in. It’s quiet, only the sounds of their breathing and Nacho’s heart pumping in his ears. The pairs of eyes from the back seat cause a bead of sweat to drip down his neck. 

Nacho tries to sound calm. “Okay. _Vamos._ ”

Leonel and Marco Salamanca glance at each other in the rear view window, speaking in a silent language only they understand. In sync, they draw their weapons from their silk suits, opening their respective doors, and stepping into the dry, desert night. 

With bated breath, Nacho watches as the two stroll through the open gates, their steps matching one anothers, keeping to the shadows of the docking area. All the garages are closed and would no doubt draw attention if opened. Still, Nacho keeps an eye on them, ears perked and ready for the screeching and rumbling to come through the open window. 

It never does.

At some point, they’re invisible, getting closer to the guards posted at the door. A shout is silenced by a flash of light bouncing off the nearby trees. Two heavy thuds travel back to the car.

Nacho’s mouth is dry. He hasn’t breathed yet.

No Doze comes through the radio. “Clear.”

The Cousins appear, walking up the cement steps to the main door. They pause, one of them gripping the door handle and the other’s poised to strike, like a rattlesnake coiled on a rock. Their gun lights up in silent fire as soon as it’s thrown open. Much louder shots follow as they both are swallowed into the building. 

Nacho tries to count the different weapons, seeing how many people could be present. So far, he hears three. Three different guns, but there could be more. _Much_ more.

Only seconds pass before the firing stops. 

His eyes whip back and forth between the road and the garages. Waiting for reinforcements. Reinforcements that never come. 

He buzzes the radio again. “ _V_ _es algo?_ ”

“ _Nada.”_

“Fuck,” he whispers. 

The Cousins are unstoppable. Nacho’s seen them stare down armies of men first hand. That’s not what worries him. They have orders, bring _one_ guy in alive. The Salamancas don’t know what that means. They’re all trigger happy, bloodthirsty machines. The whole city could be slaughtered before they even get to the albino. 

Keeping his head down, Nacho leaps out of the car, sprinting towards the building. He slams his body against the first trailer and creeps along the sides, head searching for any sign of movement. 

His whole body jerks when the shooting starts up again. 

The thick walls and heavy doors muffle some of the sounds, but not all. Shouting and shooting from different types of guns. He jumps over the corpses of the guards and runs up the stairs, clutching his gun close to his chest.

Hugging the wall, Nacho pushes his way through the door. 

The Cousins stand amidst a massacre. Five bodies are shot to hell, blood and bullet holes peppering the walls and furniture. Glass and wood slivers and poker chips are scattered all over the floor, the game table overturned in an attempt to get cover. The body behind it proves that it was pointless. The amount of bodies tells Nacho that whatever they were doing was important, but secret.

Both heads of the Cousins turn to him, wordlessly holstering their weapons. Exasperated, Nacho goes to each corpse one by one, kicking them onto their backs. Looking for pale skin and white hair, but finding nothing.

“ _Esto es todo?_ ” Nacho demands. 

Neither of them make a sound.

Nacho looks to the ceiling, listening for footsteps. “ _Piso de arriba._ ” 

Both of them head for the stairs. Nacho lingers in the bullpen, spinning his head around, looking for any sign of life. There’s nothing else there, except empty bathrooms, but something else catches his attention. Outside the back door sits a rectangular, metallic building. Like a mobile home but in the ground. An eerie blue light glows from the window. It’s about fifty yards away, so small and surrounded by trees that they would’ve never seen it from the road. 

Puffing up his chest, Nacho takes a step outside and charges quietly to the trailer, keeping his gun at his side. He can hear music blaring. Exhaling shakily, he presses up against the side of the trailer. The blue light’s much stronger now, and there’s a faint rustling from within the metal walls. Nacho reaches slowly for the door handle, finger’s trembling. 

The door explodes.

Nacho drops, crawling up against the building. His chest heaves as he stares at the bits of metal door on the concrete. A hole the size of his head blown into the middle of it.

“You’re dead, asshole!” 

The voice is male. Thick, gringo accent. A shotgun cocks and the door is blown off its hinges. 

All his muscles are tense, and he hears the gun reload. Nacho leaps across the open doorway, trying to get cover on the other side.

“You have any _idea_ who you’re fucking with?” the man shouts just as the window above Nacho explodes in a burst of glass. He stops moving immediately. “You and your pals, we’re gonna gut you. Filthy, beaner pigs—”

The shadow appears against the blue light. The shotgun clicks empty.

Nacho jumps up and fires. A body thuds to the concrete.

Blood pools around him, but Nacho still kicks the shotgun away. The blue light shines on a head of brown hair and neck tattoos, shuddering with one final breath. Nacho takes a sigh of relief before stepping into the trailer.

The whole thing’s decorated to look like an office without personality. Filing cabinets have been ripped open and gutted, papers strewn around the room, some still fluttering from being discarded. Flames flicker inside a trash bin, consuming a bundle of folders and files within. Computer monitors hum against the wall, glowing blue and spitting continuous streams of white text across them.

Nacho trails his gaze around until he stops on a figure in the corner.

It’s a man, much smaller than the dead one, cowering against the wall. His long, rat-like hands are curled up to his chin, slobbering lips moving silently as he holds something close to them.

Nacho snaps his gun to his chest. “Hands up.” 

The man’s unarmed, but doesn’t obey. 

“It’s all gone now,” he mutters. “It’s all gone.”

Nacho flexes his jaw. “What the hell are you talking about?”

The man’s lips curl into a feral grin, before revealing what’s in his hand. 

A small, white capsule. Like medicine, already touching his lower lip. 

Nacho squints, confused at first, but then realization kicks in, and he lunges at him. The pill falls soundlessly to the floor as Nacho seizes his wrist, twisting it around the man’s body and slamming him into the floor. The man squirms in Nacho’s hold, the free hand reaching for the pill as it rolls under the desk, yelping and snarling like an injured coyote.

Under the blue light, Nacho gets a good look at him. He’s thin, with sharp, marble features and skin like porcelain. Pale eyes glare at him in hatred from a smooth, hairless skull.

“It’s all gone!” he cries, somewhere between laughter and pain. “Nothing left for you stupid fucks.”

Nacho glances up at the screens, understanding what the white text and blue screen means. Everything on the computer is being deleted. Wiped clean. Whatever it was, it was definitely important. And now they’ll never know.

A knee presses into the man’s bony spine. “ _C_ _allate_.”

“Kill me now, it doesn’t matter,” he spits. “He’s gonna skin you alive. Cover you with salt. It won’t be quick, he’ll make sure of it. I wish I could hear you cocksuckers screaming.”

Nacho hesitates for a moment, and the man lunges once more for the pill. Nacho strikes him in the back of the head, and yanks one of the computer cables free, wrapping it around his bony wrists.

“Who said anything about killing you, _amigo_?”

Defeated, the man dissolves into a fit of laughter and anguish.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> These next few updates were two chapters. Now they're four. Because... flow? I dunno. My shift was long.


	22. Saunter Slowly Downwards

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "Home" by Gustavo Santaolalla

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter takes place chronologically alongside 21. So while Nacho's being a badass, Mike's doing this. For the sake of my story, Mike is divorced in the flashback scenes, but I do believe that his wife is dead by the time of Better Call Saul. Just makes sense to me. Also I believe Mike was a different guy before moving to Albuquerque. I think the events in episode Five-O really messed him up. At least, that's what I'm choosing to go with.
> 
> Ditat Deus - "God Enriches", Arizona's State Motto
> 
> Remember how I said this would be posted last week? Well, I don't have a good excuse, except that I did the thing I ALWAYS do where I add more to a chapter than I had written, and then polish it obsessively. It was 8 pages originally. Now it's 14.

The old man’s knees creak when he gets out of his car. 

It’s gonna be another long night.

The lawyer’s standing near the edge of the parking terrace, lit up by a neon green halo from the sign across the street. A small, red light burns near his lips. He leans against the concrete edge, his posture and demeanor indicates the facade of Saul Goodman has been put to bed, at least for the day. His shoulders slump, his face creased and worn, showing his true age. The hot night air blows through his hair to reveal the balding spot that keeps growing every time they meet. Soon, he won’t have any more hair to comb over.

“You get validated?” Jimmy McGill shouts. “They’re real Nazis about the stickers.”

Mike wordlessly strolls up to him.

“You’d be proud,” Jimmy mutters.

The old man points his eyes at the lawyer.

“We’re still not at small talk, huh?” he quips. “Guy saves your ass, you’d figure…” 

His words trail off as he pinches the cigarette between his lips. The JMM on his briefcase glistens against the neon when he places it on the ledge. Smoke swirls green and yellow around his face as he thumbs through the tabs inside, until he brandishes a manilla folder. _Mesa Police Department_ is printed under the seal.

“From the Great State of Arizona.” There’s no bravado in the lawyer’s voice. “ _Ditat Deus_.”

It’s light and thin in Mike’s hands. “This all they have?” he grumbles.

Jimmy’s somber as he drags his cigarette. “Not much to go off of.”

The old man flips through the file. The name is bold enough to read through the light of dusk: 

Ava Marie Sutton.

“They grabbed her off the street,” Jimmy recites through smoke. “She was walking home from oboe practice. Lower income area. No street cameras. No witnesses. No one even saw a car.” Disturbed, he takes a long, heavy drag. “Only thing left behind was the oboe.”

Mike could read through it, but judging by the weight, there’s very little disclosed in the case file. Mostly just from the crime scene, which the lawyer was spot on about. There was nothing left behind. Nothing to go off of. One minute she was there, the next she was gone. The FBI might have more, but if they do, it’s not in the file.

“Any leads?”

The lawyer has an unsettling air of seriousness. One that Mike’s not used to. “Only assumption is that it wasn’t opportunistic. She’d been picked out. Stalked for weeks, probably. They still have no idea by who.”

Mike’s head is still in the file. He announces in disappointment, “No body found.”

“None ever were. The parents gave up after two years. Buried an empty casket last September. Look, Dirty Harry...” He pats the file. “There’s about four dozen cases just like this one. All over the South West from the past three years. All caucasian or light skinned teenage girls. Lower income families. Medium-ish risk neighborhoods. And those are just the ones that have been reported.”

The green light given by the sign is enough to see the face. A fourteen year old girl with dirty blonde hair. White teeth. Blue eyes. Perfectly symmetrical features. Mike squints, trying to read through the late night atmosphere. One last thing catches his eye before he snaps the file shut in a huff.

“She was autistic.”

Jimmy puffs through his nose. “Didn’t talk until she was seven.”

Rage boils inside the old man. He grinds his teeth as he places the file on top of the briefcase still resting on the ledge. The lawyer fidgets in place, not meeting Mike’s eye. 

“Anything else?”

“Yeah, uh. Several things, but mostly...” He stubs out his cigarette on the concrete. “Maybe you could just… I dunno, ease my conscience a bit. In case you don’t know, you being the geriatric T-1000, a conscience is a little cricket on your shoulder. Tells human beings what’s right and wrong.”

“Didn’t know you were familiar with the concept,” Mike jabs.

The lawyer rolls his eyes. “This whole thing between my client, I guess, and your mysterious employer, I was under the assumption that it’s to pay off a debt. Start a new life and what have you. That’s all it is, right?”

Mike slides his hands into his pockets. “You’ve been talking to your wife about her?”

The lawyer wags his hands. “No, no. And even if I was, I mean, spousal privilege and everything. Just... Tell me that I’m not helping you sell her soul to the Cartel.”

It takes a moment for him to respond. Even then, he can’t look Jimmy in the eye. “What happens between your client and her employer is for her to disclose.”

“Spare me the ‘need-to-know’ bullshit,” the lawyer snaps, taking a few steps forward. “And just be a real person. For two seconds. Look at me, I’m being real right now. So just… Be straight with me. This girl -” he plucks up the folder from the ledge and waves in the old man’s face. The air tickles his three days unshaven face. “- was abducted from her family. They never found her again. They never found _any of them_ again. But _you_ found _her._ ”

Mike stares at the file as it’s swatted against his shoulder. He bites back a retort, feeling a knot growing in his stomach, but keeps his face blank.

“Somehow, she got away,” Jimmy continues. “She’s a goddamn kid. She should be, I dunno, going to football games and the movies and falling in love. And you’re just gonna let El Chapo turn her into _Little Miss Scarface_?”

Despite the lawyer’s assumption, his words dig into Mike’s skin. Part of him’s annoyed that the lawyer would assume he hadn’t already been thinking these things. When in reality, the more time he’s spent with the kid, the louder those thoughts are becoming. But, still...

“... I do what I’m told,” Mike replies dryly. “That’s as far as it goes. I got people counting on me.”

“So, what? That’s all it takes?” The lawyer sounds disappointed in him. “Today, it’s her. Tomorrow, someone else. As long as it’s a job, doesn’t matter.”

Mike growls, “ I thought you, of all people, would understand that.”

“Oh, because I’m the slimebag lawyer, I don’t have a sense of right and wrong? The shitbags I deal with, they’re shitbags by _choice._ Does she even have a choice? One that’s _not_ ‘swallow the bag of blow or I break your kneecap’? Look, Mike…”

The lawyer never refers to him by name. Mike pauses his retreat, halfway between his car and the ledge.

“These… _people_ , if they fit the legal definition, I know what they’re capable of. The evidence I’m shown in court, it’s only a fraction of what they do. I watched Tuco break someone’s goddamn leg over nothing. I mean… For god sake, Mike, you’ve seen it. You know what they’re capable of. As long as the _dinero_ is flowing it never stops.”

There’s footsteps behind the old man.

The lawyer goes on, “Today, it’s this. What about tomorrow, or a month from now, or year, when the Chicken Man straps a bag of dope to your granddaughter’s back and tells her, ‘Don’t stop ‘til Oaxaca’? You gonna be okay with that—?”

Turning sharply, Mike’s fist collides with the lawyer’s jaw. 

The shock is enough to cause him to stagger backwards, though Jimmy manages to stay on his feet. He cradles his jaw, blood glistening on his split lip. Mike seethes, clenching his fists and stepping closer. Jimmy recoils slightly. 

“Watch your fucking mouth,” Mike snarls. “We’re done here.”

Mike stomps back to his Chrysler, papers and leather rustling behind him. The lawyer appears near his hood just as Mike unlocks the door. A new file, one much thicker by the sound, is slapped onto his windshield. Mike glowers at the intricate, black vines surrounding the Alamo and the state flag of Texas.

_San Antonio Police Department._

“What’s this?” 

“It’s a heavy read, I’ll tell ya _._ ” 

Jimmy begins to storm off. Mike stares at the file as the knot contorts further in his stomach. 

“I need that back by Tuesday,” Jimmy shouts.

“... It’s not a debt,” Mike calls after him. 

The lawyer stops and swivels on his heel. “Pardon me?”

“The man who did that,” Mike points his eyes at the Mesa folder. “Is an enemy of my employer. He promised the kid revenge, in exchange, she’s helping him dismantle the operation.”

It’s impossible to read the emotion on the lawyer’s face. Mike wouldn’t call it relief, but he seems to ease slightly.

“Revenge. That’s all?” 

“That’s all.”

The lawyer chuckles grimly. “Well, no offense, but when, in the history of time, has it ended after the pigfucker croaks?”

Mike holds in a growl. “He gave her a choice. She chose this.”

Jimmy reaches for a cigarette that’s not there. Listlessly, his hand rubs across his mouth and massages the spot on his cheek that’s turning purple. “You’re a smart guy, with a millennia of experience. If you think that he would’ve let her go, if she asked, you’re lying to yourself.”

Mike winces.

“Bad guy gets killed, she gets her revenge, you think that’s where it ends for her? Because if it is, there’s only one way it will… And I think you know that…” The lawyer takes another step towards him. “Just know that when this kid ends up beheaded in the desert, Al Qaeda style, or best case scenario, shivved in prison, it’s on you and me.” Jimmy’s face ages by a few years as he adds, “And I sure as hell ain’t carrying all the blame.”

Jimmy removes a card from his pocket and hands it to the old man. “Give this to the kid. In case she wants it.” He buttons his suit coat with a single hand. “Copy the number for yourself. You never know.”

Mike holds up the card to the light. 

_Best Quality Vacuum._

There’s something scribbled on the back in pencil. _Hoover Max Extract Pressure Pro, Model 60 - adaptor._

Mike tucks it in his breast pocket. “Get some sleep, McGill. You look like shit.”

Back turned, the lawyer extends a fist. “Likewise. I’ll see you in hell.”

***

“C’mon. You owe me” 

Static buzzed his ear as someone sighed through the other line. “I dunno, Mike. Something like this is just...”

“What, you want me to beg?” Mike was on the verge of doing so. His voice threatened to carry up to his son’s bedroom. “You know what this could do to his future. He’s eighteen now.”

“Exactly, Mike. He’s eighteen. What about you? If IA finds out about this—”

“They won't,” he interjected. The phone started to gather condensation. Mike wiped sweat from his forehead. “I covered my tracks. They can’t trace anything back to me, unless those kids talk. Which they won’t. I put the holy fear of God in them. I just need you to hold up your end.”

Sanders sighed once more. “I can, it’s just… They’re gonna want something.”

“My cut next month. Is that enough?”

Sanders seemed more eager. “It’s a start.”

Mike faced the corner of the room. “What? You want more?”

“Eighteen years old, Mike,” Sanders said. “Vehicular theft charges don’t just disappear. Plus we gotta protect the other kids, too, so they don’t start ratting each other out. So, yeah. It’s gonna take more.”

“How much?”

“Three months.”

Mike lowered the phone, cursing silently. “Three?”

“Not my price, Mikey. It’s theirs.”

Sure, he could manage a month without the extra cash. Maybe two. But three? Three is a risk. Especially with Matty moving out. But his son’s soul is worth it. He only thought it over for a few seconds. “Okay. Three months.” 

He practically saw Sanders nodding. “I’ll let them know.”

Mike goes to hang up. 

“Hey, for what it’s worth,” Sanders added, “I wouldn’t think a jury would put much blame on him. He’s a good kid.”

_Nothing like his old man, thank God._

“Let’s keep it that way.”

Sanders’ side went dead first, and Mike was left in silence, slowly placing the phone on the wall. Three months on a cop’s salary again. He hadn’t done that for years. Alimony checks and Matty moving out. The bill for the AC that never seemed to work.

 _It’s worth it._ Mike repeated over and over. _It’s for Matty._

His eyes trailed up the stairway where his son disappeared to. There was a muffled sound of music through the walls. Crosby, Stills, and Nash, the same cassette Matty beats to death when he’s angry. Just loud enough for his father to have heard, a way of saying “Fuck you” to his old man. It had gone halfway through the album by the time Mike made his way up to his son’s room, pausing outside the door.

_She left me too, Dad._

Though Mike had never admitted why. And he never will.

Ellen knew he was dirty. Knew for years. Mike supposed it slowly ate away at her, knowing where all the money was coming from, and knowing what the guests at her dinner table were doing to give it to her. The knowledge implicated Ellen, too, so disclosing it would mean Matty would lose both parents. She took the other way out, and Mike let her leave, though he didn’t anticipate Matty’s reaction.

The kid never forgave her. Refused to speak to her. Blamed her for the whole thing, and chose to stay with his dad. Ellen let him, though she swore to bring all powers of Hell down on Mike if his dirty work ever got slightly close to Matty. 

That night was the closest it ever got.

Mike stood outside the door for a while. Matty probably heard him breathing. Eventually, he balled his knuckle, tapping out the rhythm of _Shave and a haircut._

Nothing.

“Matty, open up. I wanna talk.”

Again, nothing. Just Crosby, Stills, and Nash.

“Matty, please,” he said more gently. “I wanna talk. _Really_ talk. No shouting.”

The door creaked open to reveal Matty’s swollen, red eyes. Mike’s heart ached. His son never cried. Never. That was the one thing he’d inherited from his father. 

Awkwardly, Mike said, “Hey.”

Matty opened the door wider and walked back to his bed, slumping down on the plaid mattress. He picked something up from his bedside table. Something wooden and sphere-like and began to dismantle it, not looking his father in the eye. Mike dragged a chair from the corner and settled in next to him, then reached to lower the lyrical sounds of “Helplessly Hoping”. 

“You’re right, kiddo,” he told him.

Matty’s jaw flexed, but he didn’t look up.

“With your mom leaving… It wasn’t just me who lost her. You’ve always been so much better than I am. I just… I assumed you’d be okay. That was unfair of me.”

The redness building in his son’s eyes made them an even brighter blue. 

“These past few months, I’ve been grieving in my own way,” he continued. “I shut you out. It was wrong. I should’ve been leaning on you. Helping you grieve. I lost a wife, but…”

His son was looking at him. Mike wanted to tell him so much more. How sorry he was. How she left because of him. How he couldn’t even look at his son without thinking of why he’s motherless. How the guilt was eating him alive, and the only way to shut it up was to drink. 

But if he did, it would all be for nothing. And he’d lose Matty.

“I’m sorry I haven’t been there for you,” Mike choked. “But I wanna be, right now. If you’ll let me.”

Matty wiped his eyes with his sleeve. 

“You’ve been watching _All My Children,_ haven’t you?” Matty said, stifling a sad laugh. 

“ _Young and the Restless_. It’s the only thing on when I get home.”

The grin lessened. “I know you’re doing your best.”

Mike sighed. “Well, you make it pretty damn easy, Kiddo.”

“... I didn’t know it was stolen.”

Mike placed a hand on Matty’s leg and angled his gaze, making sure he was looking into his eyes when he said, “I know.”

Matty nodded, swallowing hard. “... Are they gonna’ press charges?”

“No.” It still felt like a lie, even though it technically wasn’t one. “You’re in the clear. I promise. So are your friends.” Mike stood up uneasily. “Just… Make sure they don’t talk about it. You don’t want word getting around.”  
“Trust me, I know,” Matty mumbled. 

Despite his son being at ease, Mike felt no relief. There was still a weight dangling over his head, he was just waiting for the inevitable snap of the rope, then it would crush him. But at least by the time it did, Matty would be gone. Safe from him and the life he’d chosen. 

“We should go fishing again,” Mike proposed.

Matty looked surprised. “Where’re we gonna do that?”

“My old partner’s gotta cabin up north. I could ask him if it’s available next weekend. Just, y’know, before you leave.” And so Matty can be out of the way while Sanders cleaned up the mess. “I’ll get work off. Call in a few favors.” 

Matty’s tone remained flat. “I’ll have to talk to Dave. He’s robbing the Federal Reserve next weekend. I told him I’d tag along.”

Playfully, Mike shoved his son’s head into the pillow. “Smartass.”

***

It’s organized chaos below. 

Standing sentry, the old man has been present for every stage of construction. The concrete space gradually being put together, piece by piece, like an illicit puzzle. 

It’s unlike anything Mike has ever seen. 

Tonight, they’re installing shelves and racks, along with piping. Welding tools spit sparks from the black bars, shining against the giant, factory sized tanks and vats. A new team of workers scitter and weave below the mezzanine, orange, reflective ants lugging and lifting and cursing at one another. Some climb the racks while others apply vents and pipes to the tanks. Every shout and drill and hiss of a blowtorch swirls around the concrete room, mixing together to form an incoherent, headache inducing ruckus. 

If Mike didn’t know any better, he’d think the owner of Los Pollos Hermanos was building a brewery for cheap, commercial beer. Or a chemical plant. The Chilean is constructing a combination of the two, though it’s by no means cheap. 

Back in Philadelphia, Mike had busted a fair share of crank labs. Most were homemade, used plastic tools and shoddy bunsen burners and flasks so yellow they looked urine stained. Supplies that could easily be stolen from a high school or a university. A few had blown up, due to poor chemical handling. The few that didn’t, those were a different headache. The clean up crew sometimes would spend weeks scrubbing every inch of the abandoned houses or basements. Any residue left over could be cancerous. Carpet had to be ripped out, replaced. Not just because of chemicals, but the blood and fecal matter found in those labs. 

Gustavo Fring is aiming for a completely different level. Methamphetamine manufacturing on a scale unlike anything the DEA or ICE has ever seen. Criminal history is being made, and Mike’s just as unimpressed as the kid sitting next to him.

Ava sits on the railing of the catwalk, legs looped through the horizontal bars. Folded arms prop her chin up to observe the movements below. A glazed, uninterested look in her eye. Black sneakers dangle above the welding sparks, close enough that Mike’s waiting for her pant leg to catch on fire. At least she’s wearing the hardhat he forced on her.

At some point, Ava cranks her head to shout, “So this is why I’ve been stuck with Victor?”

Mike sips at his coffee. “Try to hide your jealousy.”

It wasn’t his choice. He’d prefer doing menial, grungy tasks with the girl, rather than spend several sleepless nights watching strangers assemble an industrial sized meth lab. Mike’s exhausted, though he’s not the only one. Judging by the bags and the redness of her eyes, Ava hasn’t been sleeping. Not to mention the amount of times he’s caught her yawning. 

Outside his character, Victor had nothing but vague details and small praises to give about their outings. Gus’ enforcer has never passed up a chance to criticize Ava, whether it’s her age or inexperience or previous status as a “glorified fuck toy”. Mike beat those words out of him, but Victor still constantly insulted her. A few days ago, that changed, and neither him or Fring will say why. Mike was hoping Ava would lend more details, but she’s even more silent than him. 

The vacuum card is burning hole in his breast pocket. The lecture from the lawyer loops continuously, the damning parts playing louder and louder with each rumination. Attempting to silence it, he steps forward and leans against the railing, lowering his head so she can hear above the noise.

“Y’know, you don’t have to be here.”

Ava shrugs, adjusting her position to hug the vertical bar. “Gus wanted me here. Besides, I gotta know how it all works, right?”

“I suppose that’s true,” he says with a nod. Mike points to one of the vats. “You know what that does?”

“No clue.”

“Me neither.”

A small, tired smile cracks on her face.

Mike sips his coffee. “You don’t gotta know _how_ the sausage is made. You just gotta make sure the butcher does his job.” He catches her mouth stretching open again. “Why don’t you head home? You got work tomorrow. _Real_ work.”

“Got the day off,” she yawns. “And my neighbors' music doesn’t shut off until two.”

The way she speaks, Mike can tell it's a lie. Small and innocent, just so she can stay there. Matty did the same. Asked Mike to lie, make up an excuse so he wouldn’t have to go out certain nights. Usually out of introversion or a desire to study. “You should join them,” Mike suggests. “Spend time with people your age.”

She chews her thumb nail. “Funny.”

“Not joking,” Mike says into his coffee cup. 

Down the catwalk, the door opens. Both their heads turn to Tyrus and Victor, the former pushing his way onto the catwalk. 

“Gus wants to see you,” he says. 

Mike stands up straight, a new pain in his spine. Ava starts to climb off the railing, but Tyrus raises his hand. 

“Not you, Kojak. The girl.”

Ava’s already staring at Mike when he turns his head. Her round, bright eyes search his face for something. A hint as to why the boss would want to talk with her alone. Mike feels his heart quickening as well, but maintains a stoic expression. His hand desires to reassure her with a simple pat on the shoulder, but he stops himself, feeling the judgemental gaze of Tyrus on the two of them. 

“You’re good, kiddo.” Mike doesn’t know if that’s the truth.

Giving him one last glance, Ava maneuvers past Tyrus to the hallway, joining Victor. The younger man has a much softer expression on his face as she approaches, bordering on respectful, and Ava doesn’t even cringe away as she stands next to him. The two vanish behind the heavy door. Tyrus remains on the catwalk, eyeing the old man with a smirk, settling his back against the wall. 

Mike sticks out his jaw. Fring must’ve assumed he’d try to follow and eavesdrop on the conversation with Victor and the girl. He’d have never considered anything so juvenile, but now that he knows Fring wants privacy, Mike wants nothing more than to spy on that conference.

Refocusing on the task at hand is difficult. The old man couldn’t give less of a shit about the assembling of the meth lab, the arguments that continue to escalate below him, or the man standing to his right that’s relishing every anxious shift in weight or rotation of the coffee cup. Mike’s mind plays out scenarios and theories, any possibility of what Fring is discussing, robotically sipping at the black brew. 

Nothing could be wrong... Right? 

Fring would let him know. He’d tell him if she slipped up. If she was exposed, either to the Salamancas or to Rosa Negra, he’d be the first to know. The girl’s his responsibility. _His_ assignment. That’s all he’s concerned about. Failing to complete his job. That’s all she is to him.

The drilling and hissing below cuts through his thoughts, and Mike tries to focus on this assignment. This one that cost millions of dollars and took over a year to get this far. This one that literally cost sweat and blood. The longer he stares at the lab, the more the icy, sickening dread spreads throughout his body. The drills spin into his skull.

Thirty agonizing minutes pass. Once the coffee disappears, Mike tosses the cup and alternates between chewing on his inner cheek and clicking the pen in his hand. He keeps catching Tyrus smirking at him, wanting desperately to ask for details, but doesn’t. It’s not his place to know. 

Eventually Tyrus leaves, but doesn’t request Mike to follow. 

The old man stays put, pacing up and down the catwalk in caffeine and adrenaline fueled strides. He checks his watch religiously as time crawls. Fring’s been speaking to Ava for over an hour. Speaking or interrogating. 

Maybe he’s had enough of her. Decided that she’s not worth the trouble that he could get into with Don Eladio or Rosa Negra. Maybe they’re going to squeeze every last ounce of information out of her. Leave Mike to drive her somewhere secluded, force her on her knees as she begs for her life with a toothless mouth and broken hands...

Something gives way in his hand. Mike opens up his palm, seeing the shattered bits of plastic bic and navy blue ink.

The door opens again. Tyrus.

“Your turn, Kojak.”

The plastic crunches again as Mike balls up his hand in an attempt to hide the mess. He has to stop himself from bumping the man’s shoulder as he walks past. 

Mike meanders through the black labyrinth of the laundromat. Finding his way around the washers and darkness is easy. Mike knows this place by heart now, and with the adrenaline pulsing through him, he manages to cut the travel time in half. The lamp in the office is the only light, guiding him like a moth. The door opens before Mike can reach for it. 

Victor steps out, offering a blank glance to the old man, before skulking away. Mike watches the back of his shoulders, his gate, for any sign about what he might find behind the door. Victor’s demeanor gives him nothing.

Relief washes over him when he enters.

Ava’s sitting on a couch, completely unharmed and engaged in rapid fire conversation. It halts when she sees him in the doorway, her face almost revealing a smile. Mike returns it thinly, but it disappears when he sees that she’s not alone.

Yes, Fring is there, as expected. Sitting at the desk, observing the interaction unfolding in front of him with the same scrutiny as a man watching cancer cells multiply. On the other side of the coffee table, sitting cross legged in a gray pencil skirt, is the Madrigal woman. The two had only interacted once or twice, but Mike instantly recognizes the dark black hair and squirrelly shoulders of Lydia Rodarte-Quayle. 

The old man had the displeasure of meeting one of Madrigal’s executives before. More accurately, she had the unfortunate experience of meeting him. Mike infiltrated a Madrigal warehouse easily, shining a light to her and Fring about the glaring faults in their operation, and creating his title of _security consultant._

The sight of her speaking to Ava boils his blood.

The conversation between the girl and the executive has paused. 

“Michael,” says the Chilean pleasantly. “Please, join us.”

He gestures to the empty chair in the corner, though Mike looks at the spot next to Ava. Lydia avoids looking in his direction, adjusting her legs in her chair and wringing her hands in her lap. Avoiding an appearance of disobedience, Mike takes a seat in the lone chair, grunting at the weight bearing on his knees. Once all this is over, a few nights sleep will do him good. 

“As you were saying, Miss Sangrado,” Fring says.

Ava looks to Mike, almost for approval. He gives her a small nod, and she scoots to the edge of the chair.

“Well… Uh, like I said.” She swallows something dry. “They don’t ship on trucks anymore. Money and the… well, other things, those go South on the trucks, sure, but the drugs come up on planes.”

Lydia nods quickly. “Yes, I understand _that_. But how does no one—”

“It’s in the glass,” Ava interrupts. “Unrefined.”

The executive raises an eyebrow.

The girl elaborates, slightly irritated. “Um, the coca, it’s unrefined. They blow it into glass bottles and import it on planes. It’s all from three companies, all on Vaas’ ‘don’t talk or you die’ list. It doesn’t get refined by chemists until it’s already over the border.”

“Are all the bottles, um… Contaminated?” Lydia asks in discomfort.

She shakes her head. “No, only certain shipments that are sent to other businesses in on the trade. Like how certain restaurants have Coke or Pepsi suppliers, they just pretend to supply these businesses with either soda or tequila or whatever. Then they refine it into cocaine.”

Fring finally speaks up, intrigued by her words. “How many refineries?”

“There’s four.” Ava points at the map of the southwest. “One’s in the Coachella Valley, though he never told me _where_ exactly. The others are in Scottsdale, Arizona.” She points at the location on the map. “Odessa, Texas, and there’s even one here. In New Mexico.”

“Where?”

Lydia asks it before Mike can.

“Los Lunas,” Ava says. “He moved it from Las Cruces. Said there was too much heat from competing gangs.”

“If his refineries are there,” Lydia proposes, “why the interest in Tijuana? If he’s not shipping product over the border—”

“He is.”

Lydia’s stunned, and angered, by her quickness. The shift in Ava’s tone to a darker one puts Mike on edge. 

Ava realizes her mistake and recoils in her chair. 

“... I mean, it’s just not the same one. It’s his new product...”

Round eyes look to Mike. The old man reassures her with a gentle, proud smile, and the girl beams.

Fring pulls her attention away. “Thank you, Miss Sangrado. You’re free to go.”

Ava stands up slowly. “... Back to the lab?”

“That’s not necessary,” he says with a shake of his head. “You may go home. Get some well needed rest.”

The girl doesn’t like this. She teeters on her feet, shifting her eyes at Mike, asking for him to let her stay. The old man reads Fring’s expression and says nothing, gesturing his head towards the door. Somberly, the girl walks across the room and exits without another word.

When the door closes, Lydia turns towards Fring, eyes full of exhilaration.

“This changes everything, Gus,” she says eagerly. 

The Chilean nods coolly. “I’m aware.”

“The DEA’s been trying to crack Rosa Negra’s shipping methods for three years.” Lydia sits forward, excitedly waving her hands. “If everything she said is true, you literally have the bastard by the throat.” 

A bad taste forms in Mike’s mouth at the mention of the name, though he’s not sure why. He’s never seen a member of the mysterious Colombian Cartel, except their corpses. It operates from Medellin to Tijuana, feeding cocaine to southern California. Not exactly his territory. 

“It’s all true,” Fring tells her. “The girl disclosed Amarante’s shipping method a month ago. My men needed time to verify, and it was. In that time, Amarante has lost favor with the Cali and the Sinaloa Cartels, which leaves him no western route to collect payment, and dispense his… less savory products.”

The old man cringes at that, glancing at the closed door.

“Only the routes through Nogales and Juarez remain,” the Chilean concludes.

Mike sinks into his chair. Fring thinks of this as progress, but the thought of that animal getting anywhere near Albuquerque fills Mike with fury. Everything he’s heard about Vaas sounds like gangster ghost stories. However, he’s met a product of that man’s psychopathy. That’s all he needs to know.

The old man relaxes his knuckles. The only bright side is that Amarante is less interested in regaining his lost property and more interested in settling territorial disputes.

“How many of his Loyalists are left in Mexico?” Lydia asks carefully.

“Very few remain alive. Those left have fled to Medellin, except for our contact. _Los Federales_ and the rival cartels have done most of the work, but we’ve managed to keep track of the fallen.” Fring nods to Mike. “All thanks to our new asset.”

The praise bounces off the old man.

“I predict, after a decent amount of time has passed, Amarante will look for a new ally. One to aid in his distribution to the States. He still thinks that we are on good terms, so I will fill this role.”

“What if he turns to Eladio or Bolsa instead?” The names stumble rather than roll off Lydia’s tongue. 

Fring replies, “With Hector still breathing, Don Eladio will never work with Amarante. Not after what Amarante did to Felix Salamanca.”

Most of this information is redundant. Mike’s assuming Fring’s filling Lydia. With how uncomfortable she appears to be, Mike imagines she’s not used to this side of the business. Only the side that comes in a massive check. However, that name brings a weight to it. One that Mike doesn’t understand, and by the way the corners of her mouth crease, neither does Lydia. 

Fring doesn’t bother to elaborate. “Madrigal cannot extend the olive branch. He will suspect deceit. He must come to me, and I will lead him to Madrigal. He will be dealt with from there.”

“Sorry. I need to stop you there, Gus.” 

With the Chilean’s gaze fully on her, Lydia shifts nervously in her chair. 

“I don’t think Mr. Schuler can be convinced into another assassination attempt.” Her hands are strangling each other. “The last one was a shit show. Pardon my phrasing. Letting… _Him_ do it was a mistake. You should’ve dealt with Amarante yourself.”

_Another?_

Mike’s eyes snap to Lydia. When she ignores him, he sets his jaw, hands squeezing the armrests of the chair, smearing ink onto the leather.

“Rafa’s health turned unexpectedly. He panicked. I should’ve anticipated that he would act against our timing.” Fring holds a finger up to silence Lydia’s protest. “And it was foolish of him to force the duty onto Miss Sangrado. She fears Amarante more than death, but her participation now is invaluable.” 

The leather squeaks as Mike digs his nails further into the armrests.

It all becomes clear. Ava had lied to him, and Gus knew it. Narvaez was plotting to assassinate Amarante, and he was going to use her to do it. She must’ve panicked, and...

Mike can’t process the revelation. The conversation keeps going.

“Have you heard from your contact since?” Lydia presses. “Is… Is Amarante still here?”

“Our contact has been silent,” Fring reports. “I suspect that means he’s with him. Amarante has not returned to Colombia. That much is certain. With all his supporters fleeing Mexico, it’s likely he has taken up refuge within the States. Possibly Arizona or California. If he steps foot in New Mexico or Texas, we will know. And we will be ready.”

Fring’s assurance is doing nothing to ease Lydia. She shakes her head, white teeth biting at her red lips. “Schuler’s not happy, Gus. He’s not going to agree to work with your contact after this.”

“He won’t have to.”

Both Mike and Lydia feel a chill at his words. 

“After speaking with Victor, I have made up my mind—”

“Excuse me,” Mike intercuts, sitting up straight. “What’s this about?”

The Chilean pivots his gaze to the old man. The knot constricts in his gut.

“Once Madrigal absorbs Rosa Negra and eliminates Vaas Amarante, there will need to be someone to assist with operations from Houston to Medellin. We had someone in mind, but they’ve proven to be unfit for the task.” He returns his black eyes to Lydia. “Bringing in an outsider would take more time. I’ve spoken with Victor, and he assures me that Miss Sangrado will be more than capable, when the time comes.”

“ _What_?”

The two of them exclaim simultaneously, though for different reasons. Lydia’s caught off guard, while Mike nearly jumps out of his seat. 

“We need someone who knows Rosa Negra,” Fring says matter of factly. “Miss Sangrado is the obvious choice.”

A moment passes before Mike regains his composure. “You can’t be serious—“

Fring slices through his words. “She was Amarante’s protege. His reluctant confidant. She knows the business as well as Vaas, Rafa, and Raul. All its routes, drop points, allies and enemies.”

“That may be true, Gus,” Lydia stutters. Somehow, she’s not as phased as Mike appears to be. “I agree she knows a lot. More than the DEA, more than Madrigal, more than _anyone,_ about the operation, but to Schuler, she’s still a teenager. I trust your judgment. I do. But convincing him is not going to be easy. Are you sure _she’s_ the right choice?”

With a smile, Fring declares, “I will make her be.”

The ache in his spine and knees is gone. Mike can’t feel much of anything anymore. He can’t even grip the armrests. 

“There are two sides to this business,” he explains. “There’s the criminal and the corporate. Miss Sangrado is intimately familiar with the criminal. Not so much the corporate. If Shuler desires, this can be changed. With her false associates degree and a generous scholarship donation by my charity, we can align her with a prestigious university. Apply some pressure and she could have a Masters in business and economics in three years. She can work her way up until then.”

The knot keeps twisting and twisting, forming a hangman’s noose in Mike’s gut. 

Lydia seems satisfied. “It’s a start. But I still think Schuler should meet with her first, before anything official is decided. He’s flying in from Hanover in two weeks. We can bring the… bring the _asset_ to Houston.”

“She has a name,” Mike growls quietly.

“My apologies. Bring _Miss Sangrado_ to Houston. If she tells him what she just told me, it might not take much more persuading.” Lydia stands, smoothing out her skirt. “The real question is… Well, this line of work requires a strong stomach for certain things. Are you sure she’s up to the… pressure?”

Mike stabs at Lydia with blue eyes.

“I mean, she’s a child. Did you, um… I mean, how many start this young?”

Fring smiles again. “Many start younger.”

Lydia shifts her weight on her heels, fumbling with her hands.

“If she isn’t prepared already,” Fring says darkly, “she will be.”

With a polite smile and a nod, Lydia exits the room.

Mike spits out the second the door shuts. “How long were you planning this?” 

“Rosa Negra was always an interest of Madrigal, and of mine.” Fring nonchalantly adjusts his tie. “Don’t misunderstand. Trafficking civilian women is a practice I find abhorrent, as did Rafa Amarante. He was always reasonable. It’s their cocaine routes I want. Amarante’s ousting has been planned for nine months, since he first tried to make a deal with the Germans -”

“I mean how long were you planning using her?”

Fring nods. “After she foiled our assassination plot and stole from me.”

“So you hand Rosa Negra over to Madrigal, then what? You install a new fountain in that village in Mexico? You got your damn meth lab. What’s cocaine gonna add?”

Fring looks offended, verging on annoyed. 

“I assure you, Micheal, money’s not my main concern. It never has been. Having a calvary at my disposal, more control over the flow through El Paso, even Nogales, now that’s something I find desirable.”

Mike gnaws on his lip. “So, a kid gives you a few more guns for your pissing match with Hector Salamanca. That’s it?”

A moment passes before a small, chilling smile grows on his face. Fring chuckles quietly to himself, before resuming his flat, emotionless expression. “You’ve grown attached.”

He fights the heat that rises in his face. “I don’t like being kept in the dark,” Mike retorts. “And she won’t like it, either.”

“I’ve told her what she needs to know. I have not lied to her. Not once.”

Mike grits his teeth. “What’s the saying about a sin of omission?” 

“What’s there to be angry about? I’ve promised her revenge, and she will get it. Amarante will be gone. The organization that took her life away will be reconstructed. Miss Sangrado will enjoy wealth, stability, an education, and protection. Two months ago, her future only consisted of a brief lifetime of torment and desert grave.”

Mike’s words verge on pleading. “... She’s a kid.”

Fring steps from behind the desk, approaching the old man.

“She’s not innocent, Michael.” There’s actually some pity in his voice. “It’s unfortunate, I know. But she’s too far gone. There’s no life for her outside of this one. I know you see it, too.”

He does. Fring leans closer.

“Madrigal will absorb Rosa Negra, with or without the girl. Unless you want a repeat of past events, I urge you to make sure she’s ready and willing.”

The Chilean brushes past Mike. There’s a pause in his footsteps.

“If you refuse, I will ensure your granddaughter never gets another cent.”

The chair is kicked out and the noose pulls taut. Mike’s hands go cold and he stands numbly as Fring abandons him in the office.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Next update might be this week, might be never. I honestly don’t know. I feel like I do this a lot. And I’m sorry, but I’m a sad bitch. I started writing this story for therapy, and I’ve had my highs and lows, but I feel like I’ve just been gradually falling downwards. I’m at a point where I don’t have any motivation to go on. It’s blocking my creativity, especially since I’m nearing the ending. Those are hard to begin with, and now I’m questioning everything I had planned. It’s the same in other things. But I do want to finish this. Hopefully I can pull myself out soon. I’m sorry if anyone’s disappointed.  
> God bless.


	23. En la Cabeza de un Alfiler

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "One Leg Each" by Dave Porter

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks to anyone who stuck around during my resent "hiatus". Just some personal problems that got overwhelming. Also, I was worried this story was too long and was trying to find a way to make it short, but I decided that it's my story and I can make it however long I want. So there. If this were a season of the show (BCS, that has 10 episodes a season), we'd be at about episode 7 now. I'd rather it be long and how I want it, than short and lazy. 
> 
> ALSO: There are uses of the words "Faggot" and "Retard" in this chapter by pretty horrible people. Just letting you know.

Iron and sweet rot. Blood and infection.

The smells permeate through the room. It fills him with memories of being shot in the stomach. Bleeding out on the desert floor. Waiting for help he wasn’t sure was coming. Nacho refuses to look at the Albino directly, his stomach unable to handle the product of his work. He strolls past him towards the table. The tools are lined across the workbench of the auto shop. Screwdrivers, wrenches, and knives, a few still marked with the print of a bloody palm.

In his peripheral, the Albino doesn’t flinch. He stares Nacho down with pale, beady eyes. If he wasn’t naked, Nacho would have a hard time telling that it was a man. Everything about him is androgynous and alien. Almost intentionally so, like he wasn’t born, but produced and sold in a factory somewhere. Another manufactured product. Even labeled by the barcode on his wrist. 

NR-000-13. Nacho saw it during the first session with the twins. Part of him wonders if it’s self inflicted. A sign of loyalty. Or if the man’s just insane. Probably the latter.

Every muscle inside him drags to the floor, stiff against all the joints and bones inside his exhausted body. When’s the last time he slept in a bed? Or even drank water? Nacho can’t remember. Stretching out his shoulders, he finally turns towards the prisoner. Angry, red gashes ooze and bleed on top purple and blue splotches, turning his once ivory skin into a collage of color. Thick, red slime drips from his mouth, growing and shrinking with each pained breath. Layers and layers of duct tape restrain his ankles, wrists, and hips to a rickety chair.

The Albino cracks a smile. His voice is much like his screaming; Faint and vibrant, almost like he’s singing every word. “You want a guy to talk? Gotta be more creative.”  
The shaking hand freezes above the display of toys.

“Is this your first time?” he coos.

Muscles and tendons tighten in his neck. Nacho has dulled out his fair share of beatings. Some of his own men. Not only that, but he can count on two hands the number of guys he’s killed. Mostly out of defense. It's the nature of the business. Torture, however…

Nacho mutters, so soft he doesn’t feel the words leave his throat, “Just warming you up.”

There’s a squeak from the chair as the Albino shifts his restrained hips. “Ah, yes. For the Mexican faggot. I’m excited. The Salamancas are world renowned for their… innovation.” He eyes Nacho from the side. “You’re not one of them, though. At least by blood.”

 _Thank God for that._ Nacho plucks up a switchblade that’s untouched and flips open with a dread inducing _snap._ Holding the weapon does nothing to hide the tremors spreading from his fingertips. Up his forearms.

“It’s obvious. You’ve been going at it for a while, and you’re still limp dicked.” He runs his tongue across his red teeth. “It’s a compliment, really. A bunch of knuckle-dragging cocksuckers, they are. Except for little Eduardo. I’ll tell you, him taking over for Hector really rattled the investors. The only one in that family with half a mind.”

Nacho tightens the grip on the switchblade. “You can shut up now.”

“I don’t have to, Sweetheart,” the Albino sings, tilting his head to the side. “I’ll tell you everything I know. Where the refineries are. Who’s on the payroll in the DEA. Where Vaas is hiding. It’s not over the border, I’ll tell you that. I’ll give you everything you could ever want… And you’ll still kill me.”

Nails on a chalkboard.

He turns on his heel, finally meeting the beady eyes that burrow into him from across the sweltering garage.

The Albino keeps going in his sing-songy tone, swaying his head from side to side with each bar. “Vaas attacks your shipments, guts some dealers, you string up some Colombians in a tree. You die. You’re replaced. I’m killed. New model. Back and forth. Back and forth. Around and around and around we go. Burning bodies and coke and crystal. Killing DEA agents and _gamberros_ and husbands and sons.” The energy dissolves slowly in his voice. “It’s a fun existence we live.”

Nacho takes a few steps forward. The prisoner straightens up, his body trembling, but whether it’s fear or anticipation, Nacho can’t tell. And he’s not sure he wants to know the answer. 

“We caught you burning files,” he says, brandishing the switchblade. “Wiping the hard drives. You knew we weren’t cops—“

“The wonder twins made it very obvious.”

“Everyone in New Mexico knows your boss makes extra profit selling teenage pussy south of the border.” He eases his grip on the knife when he feels the hilt about to shatter. “Is that what you were hiding?”

“I thought you said no questions?”

Crouching down, Nacho leans forward, resting against his knees. The switchblade jumps back and forth between his hands, an ever present threat to the prisoner who couldn’t care less. He keeps staring into Nacho’s face with dilated pupils, searching for something. Hungrily. Like he might reach out and take a bite of flesh from Nacho’s face.

His voice goes quiet, almost to a whisper. “Is that what you were doing?”

The Albino sucks in a painful breath, his thin shoulders rising and falling sharply, but maintains his silence. Nacho knows who’s outside the garage. Listening to everything being said. Waiting for him to apply pressure. 

He’s just not there yet.  
“Awfully hypocritical of Lalo to care about a few ripe, gringa cunts,” he gurgles. 

Heat flares in Nacho’s chest, knuckles white on the switchblade.

“Lalo doesn’t care about the girls,” he growls. “I do.”

The Albino squeaks in what sounds like a laugh. “No offense, _hermano_ , but you don’t strike me as a gentleman. Or, maybe...” He sits forward eagerly, his sour, iron breath just an inch from Nacho’s face. “You want a little slice for yourself. Last we checked, your house was a little low on… Soft touch.”

A sick feeling fills his stomach. “Not even close.” 

“Hmm. You sure?”

Nacho rests the blade between the Albino’s thighs. “I just want a reason to enjoy this.”

The prisoner keeps his stubborn smirk. “Mm. I want that, too. But you might wanna check your history. One of our biggest customers, at least when it comes to… What did you call it? Teenage pussy?” He rolls his eyes, like the term is so juvenile. “Hector would be surprised how many of his friends have divulged. And how often.”

“Was that what you were hiding from us?” Nacho’s smiling softly, but his teeth are clenched. “Protecting clients?”

“I do a lot of work,” he responds in a more professional tone that deepens his voice. “I know a lot of things. It’s my job to know. So, yeah. Theoretically, there could have been several… Dozen or so photographs of our product that would be considered… Compromising. Especially for our loyal clientele. Something we wouldn’t want getting in the wrong hands.”

The blade’s pressing into what little fat rests against his femur. A deep indentation forms from the dull blade. 

“But strictly for business purposes,” the Albino assures, still unaffected by the threat sitting near the only vestige qualifying him as human. “We don’t personally partake. At least me.”

_No. Just your boss._

Nacho lets air out of his nose and bites back the retort, though it plays out loudly in his head. 

“So, you’re the name and numbers guy?” Nacho presses. 

“In a sense, yes.”

“Here’s some names,” Nacho growls. “Dante Fuez and Ricardo Herrera.”

He blinks. “Who?” 

“They were killed in a shootout in El Malpais two months ago. On Vaas’ orders.”

Bloody saliva drips from his lips. “My boss... killed _your_ guys?”

It’s an outrageous statement. Like there’s nothing more ridiculous to the man. 

“Yeah. That clusterfuck in Tijuana screwed your operation on the West Coast,” he continues. “You had Dante and Ricardo rat, used them to move in on our territory, then killed them when they outlived their usefulness.”

The words feel rehearsed. Nacho’s said them to himself and Lalo, over and over and over, but he still doesn’t believe them. The girl, the one from the motel, apparently she had killed them after Narvaez abandoned her. For one reason or another, he doesn’t buy it. There must be more going on. But for the time being, that’s all he has.

However, the Albino doesn’t buy it.

The beady eyes narrow and the bloody smirk gets stronger. Nacho begins to feel the pulse in his hand beat against the hilt of the switchblade. Sweat gathers on the nape of his neck, forming a drip that goes down to his tank top. The cockiness of the prisoner’s response makes Nacho bite the inside of his lip. 

“Vaas Amarante,” he hisses so hard that blood drips down his lip, “doesn’t give a fuck about _you_. Or this _shithole_.” He raises his voice, which only accentuates its femininity. “Or that retard Hector.”

It’s expected of him to strike. The piece of shit just insulted the Don, and while Nacho wants to see Hector six feet under, he knows his audience is outside the door. Nacho grabs the Albino by the skull, shoving his head to the side as the prisoner yelps in shock. The yelping turns to squealing as Nacho saws off the soft flesh of his earlobe. He writhes in his grip, only stopping once Nacho steps back, holding his breath to toss the lump of flesh aside.

The Albino face flushes green. The red saliva’s now running down his thin neck, along with the scarlet stream that flows from his ear. He releases a sarcastic, “ _Ow_.”

Adrenaline surges through his body. Like his screaming unlocked something inside him. Something Nacho doesn’t like. He grips the back of the chair. It squeaks as he leans closely in to whisper in the bleeding ear. 

“It can get a lot worse for you.”

The prisoner’s chest heaves. “You have no idea… What _worse_ is.”

“Is that why you tried to poison yourself?” Nacho asks. “Too scared of Daddy?”

The prisoner lets out a pained chuckle. 

“What?”

“It’s cute.”

“What is?”

“I met one of you before.” He’s finally regaining his breath after the cutting. “Who Tuco had before you. His lieutenant. All fiery and muscular, with his piercings and tattoos and guns and knives.”

Nacho stands back slowly.

“Don’t know his name. Doesn’t matter. He’s in the same place now, as all of them before you.” He stares up sinisterly. “And all the ones that will come after you’re shot and buried in the desert.”

There it is. The first chip Nacho feels. 

“Not Lalo though. Or Hector or Tuco. They’ll last longer. It’s just a game to them. A game they think they’ll win. But no one really wins, do they? They push around the pieces. Set them up. Until…” He makes a small sound, like an explosion. “They lose, too. The game resets. New players. New pawns. You and I...” He smiles gently at Nacho. “Dead men walking. All of us.”

For a moment, his eyes lose their sternness. Their emotionless gaze. He feels the fear well up, if only for a moment. But it’s long enough that he can see it. The dead, beady eyes fill with pride.

“No heroes. No villains. Just… Dead men walking.”

What steadiness he gained from the cutting is gone. “At least I’ll make it to next week,” Nacho mutters softly. 

“Why does that make you the lucky one? Because you don’t know how worse this will get.”

The white face becomes manic. Deranged. Like it was when Nacho wrestled the poison out of his hand. 

“He knows you have her,” he hisses.

Nacho’s face falls. “... What?”

“Vaas’ pet.” The beady eyes narrow knowingly. “That back-stabbing, little cunt. She told you about me. About the truck company. He knows she’s feeding you everything. Probably didn’t even hesitate to start squealing. He can’t wait to get his hands on her again.”

Bloody spit is projected onto Nacho’s face. 

A fist cracks against the prisoner’s jaw, sending the rickety chair toppling over. It hasn’t even finished its descent before Nacho brings a kick right onto the bruises. The Albino curls into himself, sputtering and coughing, until a tooth clicks onto the concrete. He chuckles to himself at the sight, before grinning up at Nacho. 

“Did that feel good?” he jeers.

He tosses the knife aside, undoing his belt and wrapping it around his fist. The Albino starts making strange wheezing noises, something that sounds like amusement.

Nacho fumes. “It will.”

The fucker is _giggling_ like a child. Nacho punches him again, this time out of horror. The belt buckle leaves a bright, angry red cut on the guy’s cheek. Nacho feels cold and numb, but tries to focus on the image building in his mind. Young girls, just like the one he saw in the motel. Dozens of them packaged up and shipped. Like they’re nothing. Just another product.

He strikes again.

And again.

And again.

The Albino coughs when he’s finished, choking on blood. It builds and builds into laughter. 

“You have nothing!” he spits. “Nothing to threaten me with.”

Nacho takes the pliers and shoves them into the Albino’s mouth. He grins despite the metal gagging him. The Albino chokes on a laugh. 

“I’ll pull every last one out. Swear to God.”

The two just sit there for a few moments, Nacho huffing in rage and feeling the bruises forming on his knuckles. The prisoner gurgles and chokes, attempting to talk with the massive piece of metal down his throat. Nacho removes the pliers, dragging a line of bloody spit. 

“What was that?” he demands softly.

“I get it now,” he giggles, out of breath and in agony. “You’re fucking her.” 

He nearly drops the pliers. 

“I bet you are,” he huffs. “Wanted a piece and took the best one. You know what he does to people who touch his things without asking. Just ask Lalo. Ask him what happened to that faggot brother of his. He’ll do the same to you. Mail you in pieces.” He smiles wider than ever. “Back to your daddy.”

Enraged and horrified, Nacho stands up, exchanging the pliers for a blowtorch. He doesn’t stop until the fucker’s out cold, all his wounds are cauterized, and the smell of burnt flesh is permanently engraved in his nose.

***

Ignacio had never seen such big cars. Three of them. Big and black and shiny, nothing like the rusted old pickup Papá drove. The one so faded that it didn’t even look blue anymore. No, these were glossy and a deep, abysmal black. Dust and rain and sun had never touched them. 

When they slowed to a stop, he waited eagerly to see who climbed out. A famous futbol player, or a singer and his entourage of friends and girlfriends, or maybe even a luchador. What they could be doing at Senior Marín’s house, logic didn't say, but his imagination still ran wild. 

It was none of those. The men that climbed out were men with angry, sour faces. Dressed in shiny clothes, with nice, shiny shoes.

And big, shiny guns. 

“Ignacio?”

He heard Papá calling out for him in a panicked whisper. 

The shiny men marched up to Senior Marín’s stoop. Something overtook him, and he couldn’t turn his gaze away. The sound of the door bursting open was loud, like the _bang_ of a gun in those old western shows Abuelo would watch. Only some of the men entered, which caused and eruption of screams from inside. 

Cold spread through his small frame. Ignacio gaped in confusion as Senior Marín’s son was dragged out of the house, kicking and screaming, his face more frightening that any sound he made.

“Ignacio!” 

He finally could move his head. Papá stood in the doorway. He also looked frightened. Almost as frightened as Julio Marín, who Ignacio could still here screaming through the glass pain. 

_“Aléjate de ahí!”_

Papá yanked him away from the window and shoving his head down to the ground. 

“ _Papá, qué está_ —?”

A giant hand clamped down on Ignacio’s mouth. The little boy jumped, trembling violently in his father’s grasp. Papá knelt beside him, his eyes trained on the window, peering over the sill to the neighboring street. His eyes were glassy and shiny, like his little brother’s got before he started crying.

Quietly, he said, “ _Nacho, ve con tus hermanos.”_ When Ignacio didn’t move, he said more harshly. “ _Rápido! Mantén tu cabeza abajo.”_

Ignacio obeyed, pressing his stomach to the floor and crawling towards the bedroom. He paused halfway down the hall, looking back for his Papá. He appeared a few moments later, moving quickly and clumsily across the floor, keeping his head down. Even though the window was shut, Ignacio could still hear Julio Marín pleading in terror.

“ _Qué está pasando_ ?” Ignacio squeaked. “ _Qué hizo Julio?”_

His Papá shoved him forward. “ _Sigue adelante, Nacho. No pares.”_

When they crossed through to the bedroom, Mamá was cowering in the corner, holding his infant brother to her chest, and embracing the other against her side. She sighed heavily with relief when she saw his face.

 _“Ignacito!”_ she exclaimed. _“Ven aquí, mijo.”_

He stood up and ran until he was pulled into her embrace, along with his brother. She kissed the top of his head.

Papá locked the door behind him.

 _“Es el Cartel?”_ she asks, voice wavering.

Papá ignored her, pulling Ignacio’s baseball bat from the wall.

 _“Te vieren ellos?”_ she presses. _“Mi amor! Te vieren—?”_

_“Callate!”_

Ignacio felt his mother flinch. She tightened her grip on his body as Papá held the bat up, in a ready stance. Ignacio trembled in his mother’s arms, still hearing the screaming. Someone was in pain. And there were more people crying. Multiple voices. 

Begging, pleading…

Ignacio shut his eyes when he heard the gunshots.

***

Water spews from the faucet and runs off his fingers in a stream of red. His hands scrub together, digging under his nails, in between his fingers, but no matter what he does, the water keeps flowing red. It swirls down the drain. Stains the porcelain sink. It’s on his sleeve. Under his nails. In the calluses of his hands. Warm and thick and sticky, like tar. His heart palpitates in his neck.

Nacho finally raises his gaze to the mirror. 

Small red flecks are sprinkled across his face. Bloodshot eyes sink into his skull through hollow, dark circles. He splashes the water onto his face, scrubbing at his unshaven chin, but the red thickens. A drip of red water runs down his neck. 

A trembling hand is in front of his face. Knuckles red and purple. Blood flows from an open cut between his middle and index finger.

 _He deserved everything he got_. 

Nacho squeezes his eyes shut. Steadying his breathing. Trying to block out the screaming that still rings in his ears. He tries to focus on anything else. The stale bathroom air moving through his lungs. The smell of motor oil trying to overpower the rot and iron. The heat on his bear shoulders. The ice cold touch of the water against his finger tips. 

_You should’ve killed him. He deserves to die._

He reaches for his shirt, discarded on the counter, to apply it over the bloody tank top. Arms through the sleeves, focusing on the feel of the fabric. Soft. Silky. A little cold from lack of human touch. 

Then the thought… The one thought he tried to block out surfaces.

_Amarante knows about dad._

Almost instantly, Nacho buckles over and vomits into the sink.

Once he’s calmed down, Lalo’s waiting for him outside the garage. He doesn’t look up when Nacho enters reeking of blood and cooked skin. He stares blankly at the white brick wall, arms folded across his chest, standing against Domingo’s busted up black mustang. 

“ _Bien hecho._ ” 

“I got nothing,” Nacho admits. 

“ _El hablara_ ,” Lalo assures.

The notion, and Lalo’s confidence in it, only increases the taste of vomit in the back of Nacho’s throat. The younger man joins the boss next to the mustang, but keeps ample distance between himself and Lalo. “Amarante must know he’s loose lipped if he fed him cyanide. Got too many dissenters on his hands. Can’t risk anything getting out.” 

Lalo nods slowly, the wheels turning inside his head.

“ _Que es_?” Nacho presses.

 _El jefe’s_ lips part before he begins. “Maybe there already is one.”

The trembling returns to his fingertips. “... Yeah, he mentioned something about a woman... Said she was working with us. Told us about the distributor.” He has to quit talking. The more he speaks, the more his nervous emotion appears in his voice. “Do you know… Anything about that?”

A small smile cracks on Lalo’s thousand yard stare. “ _No se._ ”

The answer does nothing to quell his dread.

“ _Déjame darte un consejo,_ ” he begins, his hands tucked into his pockets. “You can’t trust anyone. Not even your own men.” The latter half of the sentence is given with suspicious eyes to the guys standing guard. _“Solo familia,_ Ignacio,” he tells him. _“La familia es todo._ _Recuerda eso._ ”


	24. Fill the Land with Smoke

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> They told me "Don't go walking slow  
> the Devil's on the loose".
> 
> "Run Through the Jungle" by Creedence Clearwater Revival

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Remington M40 and Winchester 70 - rifles commonly used during the Vietnam War, which Mike served in.  
> Naloxone - an emergency drug administered to people who overdose on opioids.

Loyola’s was Mike’s spot, but gradually, it had become _theirs_. Usually before or after jobs, they’d eat here. Mike would order according to meal norms. English breakfast for early morning, burger for afternoon, and chicken fried steak for late nights. No matter what time of day, Ava would get french toast and eggs, never touching the latter. A mountain of cinnamon fried bread, white whipped cream, and scarlet red strawberries. She seems to douse the concoction with syrup after every bite, ravaging it like it’ll be snatched away at any moment. A welcomed change from barely touching anything. 

Neither of them have said a word yet, except to the waitress.

The deep, dark circles from the lab are still present, and even more prominent, around her dim eyes. Her limbs move in jerking motions, not fueled by rest, but by the coffee being forced down her throat. When her sleeves come above her wrists, she quickly yanks them down, keeping them balled up in her fists as she clutches her fork. It’s a sight that angers him. She still hasn’t learned to take care of herself. 

“Did you get any sleep last night?” His words verge on a rebuke.

Without missing a beat, she snaps back, “Did you?”

A retort stirs in his mouth as he chews on his tongue. Mike stabs into his chicken fried steak, sawing at the meat until he scuffs the plate. “Eat your eggs,” he mutters.

Mouth full, she responds, “I don’t like eggs.”

“Then why’d you order them?” 

Her shoulders shrug. “I dunno. The lady asked if I wanted eggs and I was afraid to say no.” She heaps in another bite. “They’re gross. I didn’t even like them before, but it was the only thing Raul knew how to make.”

The name makes Mike go rigid.

There was one individual she had never willingly mentioned by name: Raul Narvaez, Amarante’s lieutenant. The only instance she spoke about him was her initial admission of the incident in El Malpais. And even then, she stumbled over her words, fighting back hyperventilation and scratching at her forearm. Associates, business partners, and thugs alike were mentioned openly and with removed emotion. Not Narvaez. 

To hear his name from her mouth, with such ease and neutrality, is disconcerting. He finally looks up, her eyes downcast, allowing him to hold his gaze there with more ease. Ava doesn’t seem distressed. She goes on talking like a child, letting her stream of consciousness fall out of her mouth as she hacks at her meal with the side of her fork. 

“He was always trying to make me eat more,” she tells him nonchalantly. “But never _good_ food. Just, whatever he had, so... Eggs. He wouldn’t even put salt or pepper or _tajin_ on them. Just tomato and cheese and avocado. But, like, not _good_ cheese. Like the rubbery kind you can buy in huge bags at the store.” She wipes at the syrup on her chin. “It was fuc—I mean, it was really gross.”

The story is over, but Ava remains placid and unbothered, taking another long sip of her coffee. Once he’s certain she’s fine, Mike returns his gaze to his food and allows an ample amount of time pass in silence. Anytime he pauses his motion of cut and bite, a trembling sensation shoots through his fingers. When his teeth aren’t chomping down on food, he’s chewing his own tongue, thoughts and questions burning in his mind and refusing to quiet. Things he has to say, but doesn’t quite know how to say them. 

Things about Lalo Salamanca, but mostly Houston.

“What’d you think of Lydia?” Mike inquires, gaze down.

Now _that’s_ something he’s eager to know.

“The business lady?” Ava asks with a mouthful. “Not much. She might wanna consider Xanax or maybe smoking a joint. Seems like she has a massive stick up her ass.”

Mike stifles a chuckle. “What did you two talk about?”

“Just the stuff you heard. She wanted to know about Rosa Negra ‘nd shit—”

“—Language.”

 _“Shit_ _._ But like, not about Vaas or anything. She just wanted to know about how it all works. Like, how they get stuff over the border, their fake businesses, all that stuff. Kinda’ thought she’d know already, since she’s gonna help Gus and all. There’s a lot of ways to do it, but only a few don’t get you caught.” That last part comes out like a recitation, like someone’s told her that many times before. 

“Did you talk about anything else?”

“No. Why?”

The words just won’t come out, but Mike rationalizes it because of their location. The location he chose, knowing very well that spilling Fring’s master plan in a public diner was not a good idea. So maybe it’s something else. Maybe he called her here for a different purpose, other than telling her about Houston.

Maybe he’s looking for a reason not to. 

“Just making conversation,” he mutters, then proceeds to chew on the same piece of chicken fried steak for an excessive amount of time. 

“What’s on the agenda for today?” Ava asks, hoping to change the subject. Lydia has that effect on people. “More shooting? Kicking somebody’s ass?” She drops her voice several decibels. “Is that Gale guy gonna teach me how to _cook_?”

 _“No,”_ he snaps, irritation crawling down his spine.

“Okay, fine. No cooking. Goddamn.” She brushes off his shortness quickly. “You gonna take me on a stake out? I always wanted to go on a stake out. Like in cop shows. Get burgers and stuff. They’re always eating burgers.”

“None of the above.” Mike still can’t look at her.

“Really?”

He nods while chewing. “Nothing all weekend.”

She pauses, her fork hovering over another bite. “If it’s nothing, then why’d you ask me to come here?”

_Because I got a job to do. Because if I don’t do it, my granddaughter gets nothing and everything I’ve done up to this point is for nothing. Putting Tuco in jail, helping Nacho go after Hector, the good Samaritan, killing Werner, killing those hitmen in the desert, it’s all for nothing if Kaylee doesn’t have a better life because of it. But for some reason I can’t get the words out of my goddamn mouth._

“Do I need a reason?” he grumbles.

Through the tops of his downcast eyes, something passes over her face. Something that looks a lot like joy, and he feels all the more despicable because of it. 

“Fring said you’re doing well,” he says, clearing his throat. “You deserve a break. Especially on your day off.”

“Does that mean I’m graduating from bitchwork?” she mutters sardonically.

His eyes roll. “Unfortunately, a lot of this business _is_ bitchwork.”

“I know, I know. It’s just… Last night, I thought I was, y’know, proving something. That I can be useful in other ways. Not just being a courier or a pack mule, but like, _actually_ useful. And, I mean…” She drops her fork and sits up straight. “It’s been two months. Other than talking to that Mandril lady—”

“Madrigal,” Mike corrects.

“—Yeah, that. Gus hasn’t done anything that he said he would. I’ve done everything he’s asked, and...” 

“Yeah. I know how you feel.”

A few more moments pass, filled with the clinking of forks and the hum of stranger’s conversations. There’s more on her mind. He can see it. Almost read it like a headline. But he doesn’t push. He doesn’t have the energy. But he doesn’t have to.

“It’s kind of funny,” she mumbles. 

“What is?”

“All this, sneaking around and killing. Spending millions and millions of dollars… Just so people can poison themselves. It’s kind of funny. None of this would be happening if they didn’t.”

Her words hang between them for a moment, dangling above Mike’s head like a piece of meat.

“Does it bother you?” Mike prods.

“What?”

“Everything you just said,” he leans back. “Does it bother you?”

There’s a pause as she considers it. “Maybe. I mean, it should, right? That’s normal. But… I feel like it’s easy in the moment, you know? Like I don’t even think about it. Until it’s over.” She adds, much more quietly, “But it doesn’t scare me. Especially when I have you around.”

That knot he had previously returns, reinvigorated. Mike thinks back to the San Antonio file, the one that’s just sitting in his house, the one that he stared at all night but couldn’t bring himself to open.

“You won’t always,” he murmurs.

The comment goes unnoticed. “Anyways. It’s all for something now, right? At least, that’s what Gus says. It’s all for something. It’s gotta be. Otherwise, what’s the point?”

He’s going to be sick. His food looks repulsive to him now.

“What about when it’s over?” Mike asks. “What’s next for you?”

The question makes her freeze. She looks up at him, and for the first time that night, Mike’s able to hold her gaze. 

“Humor me. When all this is over. If you could do anything, what would it be?”

She looks taken aback, like she’d never considered it. Like the concept of _after this is over_ didn’t exist until just a few seconds ago. “I… I don’t know.”

“What did you want before..” _Before that motherfucker ripped you apart and only left what he wanted._ “... All this?”

“Like, when I was really little?” She scrunches her face up. “Because I wanted to be a dolphin trainer at SeaWorld, but I don’t think that’s what you mean.”

Mike has to hold in a chuckle with the amount of times he’s heard Kaylee declare the same dream. “Not necessarily, unless that’s still the case. I mean, what did you want to do? Where did you wanna go?”

She shrugs. “I dunno... Everywhere?”

“Everywhere?”

“Yeah, just… Everywhere. Anywhere that’s not a goddamn desert,” she mumbles, scraping at the remnants of her meal. “I’ve never left the desert, but I've never even been to the Grand Canyon. I’ve never been anywhere. I wanted to hike Machu Picchu or go to Paris and London or Iceland with like, the black sand beaches and glaciers. Or Alaska.” Somehow, her eyes are brighter. Younger. “Alaska would be so cool. They got whales and polar bears and stuff. Also, I could see the… What’s it called? The aurora boris or something. The lights in the sky.”

“Aurora Borealis.”

“Yeah! That. That would be so cool. I mean, they got that in a lot of places, like Sweden and Norway and Russia, but y’know. Alaska would probably be easier to get to.” The spark fades as she reenters reality. “I didn’t know how I’d do it. Maybe play guitar in a band or something, but that’s _what_ I wanted. Not anymore, though.”

“Why not?”

“C’mon, Mike—”

He shakes his head. “No, I’m serious. When all this is over, why not do all that? What’s stopping you?”

He’s practically begging her for a reason. _Just tell me. Tell me you don’t want this._ Mike waits for her to continue, but when she does, he can practically feel Fring’s smile grow from miles away.

“I dunno… I guess, things are just different now. This is all I’m good for.”

***

Lines and lines of stocks and barrels, both wooden and metallic, lay out before him in endless rows, gleaming in the artificial light. Each unique. Beautiful. Hunting rifles and automatics. Smith and Wessons. MG42s and M60s. Crafted and prepared for one task. Beside him, a small hand extends to stroke the stock of a Remington M40, leaving behind smears of fingerprints across the wood. Smooth as glass. Deep stripes of caramel lovingly polished out of the wood and stare him down like a Tiger's Eye. Mike’s unable to move. Unable to join the caressing and worship that the small figure next to him is performing. All the sound that hits his ears if faded. Gargled. Like there’s a bag over his head.

The tiny hand moves on to the next one. A Winchester Model 70. Pitch black, the barrel a mixture of oranges and reds and blacks, like angry, crackling embers on top of a burned pire. The muzzle is adorned with six golden tips like teeth. Teeth and fire.

A delicate finger coils around the trigger, and Mike’s blood freezes as it pulls it back. 

There’s no _bang,_ but Mike’s whole body still flinches like it’s been shocked. The dissonant strum chimes through his now clear ears as the trigger vibrates at such a speed it leaves all visible reality, ringing and ringing before finally becoming still. Only once it stills does Mike see the six nylon strings where a trigger should be, strung tightly above a gaping hole.

The small hand still rests on the flat, bulky stock, pressing down hard. 

“They’re so pretty!” Kaylee beams. “They look like candy.”

It takes several breaths and a few moments of blinking before the Winchester Model 70 fades back into a Fender Avalon. The classic, wooden rifles become acoustics and the semi-automatics become electrics. Guitars, not guns. Instruments, not weapons. His mind still swims from a sleepless night, his joints stiff and tight. Another night of pacing and drinking and ruminating over a file that he didn’t dare open. 

_Work is work,_ he thinks to himself. _Leave it there. Be here. Now._

Now he’s with his granddaughter. His family. Spending a Saturday morning with her while Mom’s at work. But it’s a fight to keep his mind there. As they walk down the aisles of guitars, Mike just sees guns. He can’t _not_ see guns. Even as Kaylee walks with her arm outstretched to strum each and everyone as she passes.

Down the aisle, a kid behind the front desk glares at the two of them through a mop of dirty blond hair. Like a signal, Mike gently swats Kaylee’s hand away, but his voice comes out a little too gruff. 

“Be careful, Sweetheart. These aren’t toys.”

Obediently, she tucks her hand behind her back, tightening her lips to hide a mischievous smile. “You think I can learn how to play?”

Not these. They’re much too big. From body to head, they’re about her height. An image of her, attempting to hold one in the correct position, comes into his mind, and she’s crushed by the massive instrument. It’s much too vivid. Too graphic. He shudders. 

“Maybe when you’re older,” he mutters dryly.

Kaylee skips a bit. “Can you play, Pop-Pop?”

 _God, no._ Mike had many talents, but musical ability was not one of them. “No, but Grandma could. She could play a lot of things. She taught music at a school.”

This revelation does nothing for the young girl. To Kaylee, the figure of her grandmother is a mystical one. Ellen passed away years ago. Kaylee never had the chance to meet her, knew why, but never understood until after...

“Hm. Mommy can play.” She turns to Mike, wide eyed. “Are we getting her one?” 

Mike’s gut suddenly feels uneasy. What was he doing there? He had the idea, the desire, and now he couldn’t exactly remember why. No concrete narrative. Just… Feelings. He’d been on autopilot ever since he spoke to Fring two nights before. A sensation that only worsened when he then got the information that Lalo Salamanca attacked a truck depot last night, and no one knows exactly why. 

Except, of course, Mike and Fring. 

_Snap out of it. Kaylee now. Work later._

The hypocrisy of his thoughts is plain when he answers her. 

“No, not your mom. Someone Grandpa knows. Someone from work.”

Kaylee tries to look into Mike’s downcast eyes. “Is it their birthday?”

“No,” Mike sighs, shaking his head. “Grandpa has to tell them something. Some… News. He’s worried they’ll be sad, so he wants to make sure they have something to make them happy.”

“Is it bad news?” she prods. 

“... I don’t know.”

The young clerk’s still glowering at them. Mike ushers his granddaughter away from the expensive instruments, redirecting her to the next aisle. Those were much too flashy anyways. And kitschy. Something more classic would be better. As they round the corner, Kaylee emits a loud gasp, sending a shockwave through the old man’s body. 

He looks down at her, eyes now saucers, extending her finger towards something a few yards away. “Pop-Pop, look!”

She runs down the aisle. 

The racks hold smaller instruments, like guitars, but with four strings. 

“Mini guitars!” Kaylee exclaims.

“Huh,” he breathes. Her excitement cracks the first smile he’s managed all day. “Those are…” What was the word again? Ellen used those with the sixth graders. “...Ukuleles. I think.”

“Ukuleles,” Kaylee repeats, bouncing her voice up and down.

Mike nudges her shoulder. “Why don’t you pick one out?” 

She gasps again. “ _Really_?”

“Sure. You gotta start small if you wanna become the next Mozart.” He leans in and adds more quietly. “Just don’t touch them until you decide. Okay?”

She returns his nod with a serious look on her face. “Got it.”

As her eyes begin surveying the options, Mike wanders back to the acoustics. There’s a row of older ones. Used and resold, and he locks his gaze onto the shell of an old Bedell. The rim of the body is black, slowly fading into red around the hole in the middle. Mike runs his hand down the curve of the side, and the crescent gouged out of the top right. 

What was he doing here? There was some idea, some concept, deep in his subconscious. She’d mentioned something about guitar, but he couldn’t remember when or where or what she said. It had just stuck to his brain, tucked away for further use. It would be enough, right? 

_Work, you’re thinking about work again._

But… Isn’t she just a job? Isn’t that all she is? 

And if she is, then what’s he doing here?

The trance of the Bedell is broken when someone slides their small, warm hand into his. 

“I like that one,” Kaylee announces. 

“Huh, you do?”

“Yes. It looks like a ruby. Everyone knows those are the prettiest rocks.”

Mike nods. Who is he to argue with that logic? “Did you pick one?”

His smile falls when he looks down at her. A large, black revolver is nestled in Kaylee’s arms, pressed up against her small frame like a baby doll. She rocks back and forth, cradling the weapon to sleep as the barrel juts out from her pink sweater. 

Then he blinks, and it’s an instrument. Four strings and nothing more. Black stained wood, shining like ebony, and sugar skulls adorning the body, sneering up at him with toothy smiles. 

“Are you okay, Pop-Pop?”

Mike shakes his head once more. “I’m fine. Let’s go, Ava.”

***

The San Antonio File sits in front of him.

Mike’s alone, on his second glass of whiskey. Outside, he hears music playing loudly from down the street. It’ll be awhile before he could even try to sleep, and he’s certain he won’t be able to. He knows it’s in there. Just one reason. One excuse not to follow Fring’s orders. One excuse to give Ava the card, help her pack up, send her somewhere far, far away where she won’t have to be anyone’s pawn or puppet or pet. 

Cut her strings. Set her free. 

If he just reads the file, he’ll know what happened to her. _Before_ all of this. Before Amarante. Maybe he’ll find proof that she’s not a lost cause. That despite what she and Fring believe, there’s a sliver of hope. Hope for a normal life. Hope that she can move on. Go to college or travel the world or work some dead end job, if that’s what she wants. Fall in love or remain unattached. Have a family or several dozen cats and dogs.

Anything but this life. 

Damn McGill for giving this to him. 

Mike ought to set it on fire and stuff it back in that leather briefcase of his. He’d only wanted McGill to look into disappearances, so he could get a sense at how good the bastard Amarante is at kidnapping young girls. Maybe he could understand how he did it. Stop it from happening, since Fring only is interested in killing the guy at the right time and place. Mike could do something more. 

He hadn’t wanted to know anything about Ava, apart from who she is now. Not even what Vaas did to her, but that was unavoidable. He sees it in everything about her. All the way back to how he found her, bleeding and dying in the desert.

McGill’s words just won’t leave him be. 

All those things he said, Mike’s lying to himself. McGill didn’t implant those doubts in his mind. They’ve always been there. Growing and festering like an infection. Maybe he’s not as loyal of a soldier as Fring thought. Maybe he’s just one shitty day away from turning on him. Like Varga did with Tuco and Hector. What he’s doing with Lalo…

No. Fring’s no Hector or Tuco or Lalo. He’s violent, but fair. Anything he does that’s malicious is always just. He’s not forcing Mike to work the girl, just so he can dangle Vaas’ precious protege in his face, as a final “fuck you” to the guy before he puts a bullet in his head. 

Realization hits and Mike downs a glass. That’s exactly what he’s doing.

He goes to open it, but stops. There’s also a chance for something else. Something that fills him with even more dread. He had seen a word. One paper within the file had slipped through the top, and he read that word, and it’s all he needed to plant the seed.

_Naloxone._

He saw the blue and knew it was a medical report. Knew what naloxone was used for, and knew that, in this case with a woman in 2003, it didn’t make a damn bit of difference. 

What if Fring’s right?

That there’s no hope. She’s not an innocent victim, but a product of bad choices and bad decisions. That a life in a game, a life of fear and violence and rape and addiction, is all she would ever know. That if Fring or Amarante had never come along, she would go the same way so many others did. 

The same way as Cynthia Bauer. 

Living for a fix. Spending every ounce of cash on drugs. Stealing and pawning and fucking for money, just to shove more and more poison into her body, until every cell of blood and flesh and bone is poison. Until her body can’t take anymore poison and some poor, hapless bastard has to pull it out of a crackhouse.

What if Fring’s deal is the best she’d ever get?

With the alternative, it’s a damn good deal. A life of protection and education and wealth she could’ve never imagined. A life as a chess piece in Gustavo Fring’s game against Hector Salamanca and Don Eladio. Not a pawn, but a knight, like himself and Victor and Tyrus and all the rest. 

Loyal soldiers in a perpetual war that he knows, deep down, only ends in two ways; getting shot in the desert or getting stabbed in prison. It’s a death sentence, but one that guarantees some sense of stability before the end.

And what if she beats him to that end? 

He can’t stomach outliving the kid for a single second. 

Mike’s trembling hands push aside the file, pulling the vacuum card into the dim light. Fring already made it clear what happens if he refuses the deal. Kaylee gets nothing. All this will be for nothing. _But_...

They could stage it. The two of them. Make it look like she refused the offer and attacked. She could be out of the state before Fring even knows. Off to Machu Picchu or Alaska. 

Even then, will that stop the blame from falling on Mike? 

The buzz of his phone cuts sharply through his agonizing contemplation. It’s a text from Victor. Just coordinates, and a brief message.

_Now. Alone._

Like the loyal soldier he is, Mike leaves immediately, driving as the last sunlight is swallowed up by the horizon. His mind spins from the whiskey, but he’s alert. Placing phone calls that go unanswered and driving for miles and miles until reaching the coordinates. 

Car headlamps shining to illuminate the point of interest. 

Mike knows the spot. An ancient water tower outside of the county limits, one that’s constantly vandalized by teenagers and used as a rendezvous spot for parties. He’s driven past it a few times in the daylight. It’s always looked the same, so today, he can tell with something’s slightly off. Four, thick metal legs prop up the tank as smaller bars form a diamond pattern between them. 

Between the diamonds, something’s floating. Or dangling. And the closer Mike gets, the more he sees that they’re swaying. His chest grows heavy and his gut drops when he pulls up to it. Victor, Tyrus, and Leo are there, the latter crumpled near the back of the car, dry heaving into the sand.

Mike kills his engine and steps out. 

Four male bodies are strung up by their necks between the legs of the water tower. The creaking of the ropes as the bodies are pushed gently by the night breeze is only drowned out by the hum of the engine. Flies dance against the light, still trying to drink from open eyes and parted lips.

It’s horrific, but he doesn’t flinch as he observes the state of them. Every one of their throats have been slit at the carotid, the ropes pulled taut at the jaw. Gravity has opened the wounds further, the only thing keeping the heads and bodies attached is the spines. The faces are all familiar, yet he can’t place names. 

“Who are they?” Mike asks, not tearing his eyes away.

Victor coughs as he says, “Three are couriers for Hector. One is an enforcer for Juan Bolsa.”

Each dead man has been stripped of their clothing, the vestiges of masculinity missing between their dangling legs. The wrists are bound behind their backs, extending the chests outward to show off the mutilation done there. It’s almost impossible to tell with the dried blood, but there’s a strange set of deep lacerations.

“Whose territory is this?”

“Not ours,” Victor says, shaking his head. He’s trying not to look at the bodies, but remaining composed. “It’s closer to Sinaloa’s. But that doesn’t make sense. They’re in good standing with Juan Bolsa and Don Eladio.”

“It’s not Sinaloa,” Tyrus sneers. “You ask me, it’s pretty fucking obvious who—Jesus, Leo! Get it together.”

Something finally exits the young man’s mouth. “I’m good, I’m good.”

The old man circles the corpses, hands in his pockets, jaw set tight. With the next body backlit by the cars, it’s nearly impossible to see the etchings on their chest. He has to extend his hand, touching the waxy flesh of the corpse. It’s still warm. The poor bastard couldn’t have died more than a few hours ago. His fingertips trace one long gash down the sternum, and one short one running horizontally through it. 

L.

Victor states, “I got no eyes or ears on Varga. He’s gone.”

“Coward probably split after Lalo fucked that truck place,” Tyrus' voice suggests amidst Mike’s analyzing. “Apparently Bolsa’s pissed about it. Wait until he sees this.”

Slowly, Mike circles the bodies again. Seeing if he’s reading this correctly. Again, it’s hard to see through the darkness, so he has to touch them, much to the confusion of the other three. 

Tyrus chides, “The hell are you doing?”

Mike ignores him. The corpse facing the car’s mutilation is obvious, now that he’s wiped at the dried blood. The lacerations form a crude, almost childlike writing of the letter A. The next one to the right, the one he’s already inspected, is an L. And the following is just a large, massive oval. O. 

L-A-L-O.

This had just happened. The corpses are fresh. How the hell could anyone do this so fast? And how…?

Fring said he wasn’t in New Mexico, but here he is. 

This wasn’t supposed to happen yet. Not this way. He was supposed to come to Fring first. He was supposed to reach out to Madrigal. And now Lalo Salamanca has fucked it up. He’s fucked everything up. He—

_Oh, God._

Barely a second has passed before Mike’s charging back to his Chrysler.

“Hey, what the fuck— Mike!”

The old man doesn’t hear him. Soon, he’s car’s careening down the dirt road, back to civilization. One hand on the wheel, the other desperately speed dialing the number. A blood chilling, heart pounding dread swells with each attempt that just goes straight to voicemail. The lights of Albuquerque grow closer and closer, but Ava’s still not answering.

There’s no way she’s in trouble, right? Lalo attacked some shipping depot of Rosa Negra’s. The message was for Lalo. She’s not in immediate danger. She can’t be. It’s impossible. There’s no way he would know.

But she’s still not answering. 

Mike’s breathing is fast and shallow. He’s strangling the steering wheel, digging his nails into the upholstery. The city limits are still ten miles out. Everything’s fine. It has to be. He’ll just go pick her up. She’ll spend the night at his place again. They’ll discuss what to do in the morning. 

After running every red light, Mike’s Chrysler comes to a screeching halt in the parking lot of the complex. She had picked it out herself. It was a strange, mid century modern structure with eerie lamps along the rows and rows of doors that appeared green in the darkness. He runs up the steps to the third floor, his knees and ankles carried by adrenaline. 

There’s no answer when he knocks on the door. 

“Ava, it’s Mike. Open up.”

Nothing. Mike fumbles through his pockets, finding the key ring, and the copy he had made. Without her knowledge. Bursting through the door, only to have his worst fears realized. 

No sign of a struggle. No sign of a break in. But Ava’s gone.


	25. White Rabbit

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Take the money and run  
> Here, I'm alive  
> Everything all the time
> 
> "Idioteque" by Radiohead.

Blood.

All she saw was blood. 

All she _remembered_ was blood. 

On her hands. Between her fingers. Under her nails. In her hair. It seemed to just get thicker the more she wiped her face, across her legs. It flowed and flowed. Never stopping. Never drying. Seeping from under her left hand and dripping onto the ground. Oozing out between her fingers as she gripped the cold, dusty concrete wall. 

Slowly, she raised the hand up to her face. Blood spilled from a fresh cut in her palm. Two gashes that formed a lopsided V. A shallow one that didn’t bleed as much, short and directly by her thumb. A quiet pain from squeezing something that only brought more pain. It crossed the long, jagged slit down her hand. That one came from…

The blood, she knew it wasn’t hers. The nearly spotless shirt on her back wasn’t hers. The car parked behind her was Raul’s, but she couldn’t piece together the events. Or didn’t want to. The last thing she remembered clearly was driving. 

Just… Driving and driving and driving. Until...

Nena wasn’t shaking or crying. She was calm. She _felt_ calm. Her throat was raw, like someone reached down inside and ripped everything out, but she didn’t remember screaming. Didn’t remember any noise coming out of her mouth. Didn’t remember pulling and dragging the two bags of money from the trunk, placing them on the edge of a concrete overpass.

No, not an overpass. Nena tilted her head slowly below. There was no black asphalt or yellow lines, just an abyss. For a moment, her spinning mind wonders if she’s looking up at a starless sky. Rippling blackness and her own distorted face looking back up at her. 

Water. 

She looked back at her hand, wiping the blood away, only to have it flow once more. Two slices making a V. One from squeezing, one from slicing. 

The _sounds_. The squelching, the choking...

Legs couldn’t hold her anymore. Air wasn’t satisfying. She gripped the edge of the dam, buckling over, and everything inside her stomach resurfaced, spewing down into the water in full body spasms. Even after it was empty, her body convulsed, emotionless tears leaking from her eyes as a single thought repeated in her mind.

_You killed him._

Her hoarse voice echoed off the water, “No, I didn’t—“

Didn’t what? Do it? Mean to? Because she had. Nena knew exactly what she was doing. What she _wanted_ to do. And she didn’t stop at one or even two motions of her hand. 

How many times _had_ she done it? 

_He’s gonna…_

Hair tickled her face. She swatted it away, smeared it down, feeling a tightness rising and rising inside her chest as fingernails raked through her scalp. 

“Fuck. Fuck. _Fuck_.”

Vaas was going to kill her. 

No, she could reason with him. Raul was planning on murdering Vaas and taking over the business. On top of that, he was engaging in a secretive, non consensual relationship with Vaas’ favorite plaything, one that was beyond just sex. Nena was protecting him, right? Defending herself. That’s what she could say. She was protecting Vaas and defending herself.

… Would he even believe her?

Vaas wasn’t as delusional as Raul. He knew very much how Nena felt about him. The second she could have the chance, she would kill him and run away. If Raul was giving her a chance, why would she not take it? 

No, he wouldn’t believe her. And he wouldn’t kill her. But Nena knew by the time he was done with her, she’d wish he had.

Calling the police briefly crossed her mind, but she dismissed it. Though not many, Vaas had a few DEA agents on the payroll, as well as cops and border patrol all over the Southwest. They’d clean up his “mess” before even a day passed. Not to mention the rival cartels, like Sinaloa and Juarez. They no doubt have plants too, and would love to get their hands on her.

No cops. She had to run. 

_Where?_

Leaving the money by the edge, she walked back to Raul’s car. The engine still purred silently. The seat and steering wheel were practically painted with burgundy blood. The little arrow was just barely above the E. She’d run out of fuel, and there’s no telling where the next town was. 

A cellphone was on the passenger seat. The one he’d been using to keep in contact with Dante. There were no contacts or messages. Raul probably deleted them immediately after receiving. The only thing on the phone was five photographs. The mailbox, the one she remembered from a few hours ago. A highway marker graffitied with a peace sign and a turn off in the background. The last three were much more obscure; a white fueling pump coated in dust, a crude well made of rocks, and finally, a small grave marker with Our Lady of Guadalupe.

Directions to his money. All meaningless, had he not let it slip where they were. 

A smile grew on her face. “Got you, fucker.”

Headlamps were approaching down the road, nearly a mile away, and suddenly, Nena felt nothing but raw panic. Standing alone, covered in blood, with _five million dollars_ _in cash_ next to her. There’s no narrative in her mind that wouldn’t be suspicious. Especially to a cop. 

_Ditch the money. You can get more._

The bags contained a barrel full. Five million. Raul said there was more out there. Yes, she could get more. It’s just money. 

Nena leapt over the barrier, hidden from sight momentarily. Unzipping a bag, she took a stack, stuffing it next to the cold, heavy weight in her waistband. It was more than enough. She pushed the bags off the ledge and into the dark water below, hearing a satisfying splash. Face illuminated by the phone, she went over the pictures again and again. Saying the images out loud. Peace, pump, well, grave. Names were always lost on her, but numbers and images, she’d never forget those. 

Peace. Pump. Well. Grave. Peace. Pump. Well. Grave. 

She memorized them over and over until the car was slowing, and Nena finally chucked the phone into the water.

It wasn’t a cop, but Nena still worked up tears. She didn’t even have to try. They started flowing as thick and fast as the blood from her hand. Nena waved them down, releasing a horrific wailing sound that couldn't possibly have come from her mouth. The weight in her waist grew heavier. 

The car pulled to a stop and two men climbed out. One was tall and trim, outlined by a hoodie. The other was short, though by comparison or a generality, she couldn’t tell. 

“It’s his car,” said one, the shorter one. “I don’t know what—”

The headlights of Raul’s car backlit the shorter man as he stomped forward, head whipping around the scene. The light cast on his hair gave him an almost devilish appearance. His hand rested at his side. His partner stalked behind him, his dark eyes resting on Nena. Though relief didn’t hit her. 

She took an uneasy step back as the tall one muttered, “Holy shit. Is that the—?”

The devil hair guy froze. Maybe the blood, but he didn’t recoil. Suddenly, he charged forward, his twisted expression growing closer. Eyes on fire, teeth bared. Before Nena could do anything, the man had her by the throat, slamming her against the concrete barrier. 

“Where’s he?” he demanded. “What did you do?”

“Yo, Dante. What the hell?”

“Where’s Raul?” Dante demanded again, before tossing her hard onto the ground. “You bitch! What did you do?!”

***

Josie Narvaez’ house isn’t what she expected. 

Of course, Ava doesn’t know what she expected. Between the excess wealth and clutter of Vaas’ Villa and crawling through every shithole of Albuquerque, apple pie suburbia was the furthest thing from her mind. Hell, even before all this, she’d never be caught dead in a neighborhood like this. Every house is the vomit of an HGTV Southwest catalogue. Patios and lawns are adorned with ceramic, glazed pottery decor as she speed walks past them, her head down as she passes under street lamps. Floral succulents and green shrubs, but the green grass is the most prominent. Grass is a luxury in New Mexico and keeping it green is damn near impossible. 

Shoes shuffle against the concrete as she makes her way down the walkways. An elderly woman out for a nightly walk attempts to smile at her, but Ava casts her head down. A young woman alone isn’t too suspicious, but one that looks like hell frozen over might raise some alarms. Sleep wasn’t something she’d experienced thoroughly for five days. Every time she shut her eyes, she saw that kid’s head explode. And coffee was ineffective at this point. Luckily, the engineering student a few doors down sold something. 

It’s only adderall. People take adderall all the time to stay up. 

_Spoken like a true junkie._

Ava swats at her head. The voice was getting louder. 

It’s the crime scene tape that gives away Josie Narva’s house, along with the floral offerings and unlit candles left on the stoop. Wilting roses and molding children's toys, a sight that makes Ava’s heart feel heavy. She has to pause, finally yanking free from dissociation, and stare. Hands in her pockets. Digging her nails into her palms.

There has to be something the police missed. 

Hopping fences was a pass time of her teenage years, but even though Ava’s regained a bit of muscle mass, her athleticism is far from where it was. After a few sporadic movements and new bruises on her hip, Ava lands with a soft, _thud_ on the other side. 

She spits up dirt and grass. “Son of a bitch...”

The backyard is just as pristine and picturesque as the front. Not a single item feels out of place, almost like it was staged. Even the greenery has been kept up by who knows who. There’s a small squish sound as she steps across the grass and wipes at the wet spots on her knees. 

Who the hell is keeping the water running?

Keeping to the shadows, Ava climbs onto the patio and crouches by the door. Picking a lock is second nature, just like fence hopping, though this one is more manageable. It’s not even a skill he had to teach her, and one that gave him quite a few headaches the first few months or so. Even if her hands refuse to stop shaking and the gardening gloves make her mobility limited, the lock springs open after a few seconds. 

The door slides open with ease, and Ava feels a rush of uneasiness with a wave of hot, stale air. Streetlights stream through curtained windows, but other than that, there’s no discernible light. Ava can barely make out the outlines of a table and chairs next to the door. The whole place feels like an oven, or a mausoleum. 

With shaking breaths, Ava crawls across the threshold and slides the door closed. The nighttime noises are silenced, only her breath and heartbeat fill the eerie void. The drapes scrape softly as she pulls them back to cover the door, only then does she pull out her flashlight. It’s small and dim, but it was all they had at the gas station. 

The beam hits a side by side refrigerator, gradually traveling across the room. It’s a kitchen, that much is obvious. The most immaculate kitchen she’s ever seen. Every surface has been scrubbed clean of the slightest smudge or spill. The spice wrack and other wears are organized and presented in some compulsive order, one that probably only makes sense to Josie. 

A cork board on the wall displays several cards and upcoming events, pinned in order of approaching date. Ava halts the flashlight on a birthday invitation for Mia that she had missed. 

_Barbie Doll. How original._

A calendar hangs by, with scribblings in blue pen announcing appointments and events from two months ago. The birthday party is written, but a few days before it, scrawled in black ink, is their planned trip to visit family. 

_Why would she schedule something that they didn’t plan on attending?_

Ava moves past the cork board, pausing at the sink. Two bowls sit inside, discarded and piled up. Even rinsed out, but still left in the sink. Not an odd sight, but in comparison to everything else, just a little strange. Even the cops thought so. The sink has been marked with a yellow and black number. 

The mail is still being collected, probably by a friend who expects the family to come home. Just junk mail: bills, magazines, coupons lists, fliers for lawn care and pest control. Nothing of interest, but Ava still flips through all of them multiple times, just to be sure. 

The voice surfaces again, louder and irritating. The lack of sleep almost makes him visible in the kitchen. _Do you even know what you’re looking for?_

She leaves the kitchen and enters the living room. Again, it looks untouched. A couch, coffee table, fireplace, etc. The word “staged” emerges again, almost rolling off her tongue to no one. Her fingers trace across the TV stand to gather the thin layer of dust that has settled there. There’s absolutely nothing. Not even a shoe indentation on the rug...

 _The_ fedorales _didn’t even find anything,_ the voice states. 

Acknowledging the apparition only makes it worse. She ignores him long enough, he’ll go away. That’s what happened at Loyola’s, when it kept insisting Mike was angry with her over something. That’s why he wouldn’t look at her. Why he kept pressing her. 

There’s nothing of note or interest in the closets. After combing through the computer room, Ava’s starting to get frustrated. She climbs to the second floor, the middle stair creaking loudly. 

The first room by the stairs is Freddy’s, at least she thinks it is. The futbol posters and Star Wars sheets are the giveaway. It’s clean, just like the rest of the house. An eleven year old’s bedroom should be disgusting, or at least Ava’s was. Clothes are missing from the drawers and closet, and there’s an empty shelf inside the folding doors marked with scuffs and mud. 

Mia’s is the same. Clean, but items are apparently missing. It even looks like a stuffed animal is missing from the pile on top of her bed. The pain in her heart increases more, and she has to tear herself away from the bright pink sheets.

 _So they packed,_ she thinks, happy to hear her own voice in her head. _Maybe they really were going to visit family and never made it._

If the rest of the house is pristine, Josie’s room has never been touched. There’s not a single hair or thread out of place. Pillows have been placed meticulously on the smooth bedsheets. Her closet’s color coded, dark violets to light creams, but some things are missing. Yanked from the hangars in a hurry. 

A photograph gives her pause as she examines the dresser.

It’s of a man, frozen in a fit of laughter as he holds a toddler on his lap. Some colorful substance is smeared on the little boy’s chubby face, staining the oversized Cruz Azul jersey he wears. Maybe cake or ice cream, but Ava’s not focusing on that. 

He’s younger than the farthest back she can remember. Less lines on his forehead and no tattoos on his arm, but it’s him. Same slender nose and sharp jaw. The deceptively soft brown eyes gleam against his smile, the one he only gave her. The eyes that insisted he was on her side. That looked at her softly as he promised to take the pain away. That promised he was going to protect her.

That filled with confusion and betrayal when she stabbed him.

The photograph starts shaking as her hands grip it tighter and tighter. It’s on the ground and crunching under her heel in a matter of seconds.

_You never told me he was—_

Ava crushes the glass more to shut him up. 

The voice continues, _He made me a liar. I said no one would touch you if—_

“Fuck off.”

That works, at least. With the silence, Ava surveys the room. With two little kids, it’s strange that the house would be _this clean_. She stares at the vacant space, wondering what conclusion Mike would come to. He’s a lot smarter than her. He would know. He would’ve figured it out forty minutes ago. Has it really been forty minutes? The green glow of her watch tells her so. Forty minutes of aimlessly wandering the house, and she knows nothing. 

She paces around by the staircase. What would Mike think?

Ava attempts to summon his voice, drown out the other one. 

_C’mon, kiddo. It’s here. What do you know?_

Josie was obsessive compulsive, kept such an immaculate living space, there’s no fingerprints on _anything._ Not even the bathroom that the children shared. Her and the kids packed up and left, obviously in a hurry. With all the secrecy, there’s no doubt Josie knew the money from Raul wasn’t clean, even if she didn’t know he was _also_ a manipulative, asshole rapist.

That’s the final piece. Ava’s washed with an ice cold dread, that slowly turns into hot, boiling anger. 

If Josie ran, then Josie knew something _._

The cleanliness of the house makes sense. Someone came here before the cops. Probably tore the place apart, looking for something, then pieced it back together. 

_Someone was here._

“No shit,” she huffs.

A chill creeps up her spine. _No, Nena, listen. Someone was here. That much is clear. But_ what _were they looking for?_

Her head whips back and forth. “I don’t—I don’t know.” Money. Raul was giving Josie money. “Money, or—?”

 _It’s not money. Trust me,_ mija, _no one, especially me, would go to_ that _much trouble for money. You know what it is. You just don’t want to say it._

Ava presses her palms into her eyes until she sees spots. “You’re wrong.”

_You know I’m not._

Ava tears out drawers and clothes in the dresser, knocking on the back of the wood panels. The same in the closet. All she finds is a crawl space in the corner, up to a small space in the attack, but that comes up empty. It’s too obvious of a hiding place anyway. Even the cops would’ve found something there. After only a few minutes of this, she grows tired of holding the flashlight in her mouth and flips on a lamp. It’s soft enough that it won’t draw attention to the neighbors, but Ava yanks the drapes over the windows, just in case. 

Grabbing a knife from the kitchen, Ava cuts the bottom of the mattress, yanking out stuffing and springs. Nothing. She circles the perimeter of the room, knocking on the walls and the siding, scratching at the wallpaper. All the while, the dark hallucination stares from the corner, arms folded across his chest. 

Then it’s onto the bathroom. The medicine cabinet has no false back and is filled with stereotypical, miscellaneous bottles. She goes to the cupboards below the sink, tossing towels and bottles of shampoo. Ava knocks on the inside of the cupboard. Solid. Nothing in the toilet either. The vents are empty. Everything’s empty. Even the hallway closets and the kids rooms. There’s no sign of anything. Ava goes back into the living room, methodically ripping through everything there as well. She shreds the couch cushions, thinking of the money she managed to hide there. Nothing.

Then the kitchen. Pots and pans clang within the silence. Dishes shatter. Spices and flour and sugar are dumped out. Nothing. Absolutely nothing. 

Nothing. Nothing. _Nothing_.

The glow of her watch says two hours have passed in a haze. Ava sits on top of the gutted couch, among the fluff and fabric, holding back tears of frustration. 

_It’s not the money, kiddo._

Ava wrings her hands together.

_It’s something else. And I know you don’t want to consider it, but it’s looking like that’s the answer._

Her lips are so chapped they bleed as she chews them. If _something_ is _somewhere_ , it’s not in an area where the kids could accidentally find it. It has to be somewhere Josie has control. Where would a mother hide something from their kids?

… Of course.

Again, Ava finds herself standing in Josie’s bathroom. The medicine cabinet reflects her horrendous, sleep deprived visage, and the reflection reaches forward to open the mirror up. She already checked, there’s no false back, but if she were hiding something smaller... 

One by one, Ava opens up the various bottles and spills the contents onto the counter. After a few minutes, the sink is full of Tylenol, melatonin, whatever medicinal necessities Josie didn’t feel like taking. The empty bottles are scattered on the floor, silently plopping onto the layer of towels that sits above the tile. When those are gone, she dumps out hair gel, shampoo, lotion, whatever products Josie left behind. 

Cleaning supplies are next. Those were down in the closet. Detergent and cleaners are empty. Then Ava’s on her knees, opening the dustbin of the vacuum cleaner. Her hand slices through the dirt, dust, and hair. The contents displace and pour onto the tile floor, coating her pants in grime as her cellphone shocks her from inside her pocket. Finally, Ava’s hand touches something plastic. As she wraps her fist around it, she finds it’s too big to have been sucked up normally. She yanks the object out. 

It’s a plastic sandwich bag, caked in dust. There’s something small, black, and plastic inside. Ava smooths away the dust and dirt on the bag before dumping the contents into her palm. 

A thumb drive. 

Ava stands up slowly, not taking her eyes off it. Heavy, yet light. Simple, yet sinister. Why would someone hide something like this? Ava can think of a dozen reasons, none of which are good. 

_How’d you know, kiddo?_

“Mom hid pills the same way,” Ava whispers to Mike.

Numbly, her legs carry her down the hall of the first floor, back to the computer room. The machine hums to live, washing Ava’s vision with blue light. It still takes an agonizing amount of time for the desktop to fully boot up, and Ava sits unblinkingly, bouncing both her legs and chewing on her lip. The thumb drive docked, two files appear. 

_SHELL._

The word fills her lungs with smoke and the stench of burning flesh. It’s hot, like sticking your head into an oven. Intense, claustrophobic heat, cooking her eyes and hair. Nena can’t breathe. Can’t move. 

Screams rack her ears. Animalistic. Guttural. 

Her own voice joins them. She wants death to come, if not to end the pain, then to stop the screaming. _Please, God, just stop the screaming_. 

Then, by some miracle, she’s lifted out of the oven. Into open air, but the screaming doesn’t stop. The screaming follows her, even into the sunlight. Even after she takes in the desert and the semi truck engulfed in flames, even after the last voice is silenced, she still hears them. 

Ava’s back in Josie’s house, cold sweat dripping down her back. 

Time and time again, she’d see the words “Shell Trucking” again and again. One of the businesses Vaas’ operation used. Her shaking hand moves the cursor over the second file. 

_WHITE RABBIT_. 

Shaking, Ava clicks it.

About a dozen more appear, each marked with a different name. _DAISY, VIOLET, MARIGOLD,_ etc. A sickness grows inside her as she clicks again, this time, on a file marked _ROSE._

PDFs appear. The moment she clicks, Ava almost vomits. The thumb drive is yanked out, and before Ava can stop herself, she’s smashing the computer to pieces, angry tears streaming down her face. When she’s done, her knuckles bleed underneath the gloves. 

Josie was in on it. Not the drugs, the...

Everything around her, every piece of this woman’s life, is a lie. Built on blood money. Taking kids, taking _children,_ away from their families. Treating them like cattle. Like products. Like every piece of furniture in this house. 

If she could, she’d set it all on fire.

_Nena, you’re missing something._

Ava grips her skull. “Shut up!” 

_He’s right, Kiddo._ Mike steps forward. _You kill Raul, Josie goes AWOL. She ran because, without him, she felt like she was in danger. But who told her Raul was dead?_

Ava rakes her nails through her hair. “Dante. Dante could’ve—”

 _No, no, Nena,_ Vaas interrupts. _The lawyer said Josie up and vanished the day after El Malpais._ After _you killed Raul. Dante didn’t know until he found you, and he had you in the back of a car with a gun to your head the whole way to that drop zone. He never touched a phone, and neither did that_ pendejo _Ricardo. And I sure as hell didn’t know._ He reiterates, more sinisterly, _So warned Josie?_

Rubbing her dry eyes, Ava shakes her head again. “I don’t know.”

_Who else knew about the plan to kill me?_

Before Ava can think of it, something catches her eye, snaps her attention directly at the window. The sight is undeniable through the curtains. 

Shadows. Moving across the yard.

“Oh, _fuck._ ”

Ava’s up the stairs just the footsteps appear on the porch. Her pulsating heart is inside her throat, and she prays it's just the cops. She can hide from cops. Easily. 

_What cops use the back door?_ Mike asks.

Ava freezes when she hears the door slowly slide open downstairs. Holding her breath, she slows her pace, stepping quietly down the hallway towards Josie’s bathroom and winding soundlessly through the wreckage. Ava closes the door quietly behind her, hearing the _crunch_ of broken ceramic against the tile floor from downstairs. 

They’re moving downstairs. She can’t tell how far away they are. Or how many. There’s definitely two, at least, and they’re still downstairs, probably just sweeping the place. She could shoot them, but that would alert the neighbors. Mike always tells her a gun is a final solution, you should always consider other options first.

The window. 

It’s small, just above the toilet, but she could slip through. Ava slides it open and cringes at every noise it makes. Pulling the screen off is even louder. The silence is amplifying every movement. Still, she’s on the second floor, and she’s not exactly a graceful jumper. The window above the bathtub points to the side of the house. Thankfully, in front of the fence, right above a nice patch of grass. But it’s high. Second floor’s enough to break her ankle, if she lands funny...

If it’s the cops, is it easier just to let them find her? Make up some bullshit story about being a junkie, searching for meds? The state she left the house in, it’s believable. Not to mention the horrid, sleep deprived monster that stares at her through the mirror. Possession of a firearm? Breaking and entering? Saul could reduce those charges easily. 

Unless it’s _not_ cops. 

Ava crawls across the bathroom floor and presses her ear to the door, her hand tucking Raul’s revolver close to her chest. 

And she waits. And she listens.

Her phone is vibrating again, more aggressively now that she’s completely still. 

It’s Mike. Three missed calls from him. More than anything she wants to answer it, just to hear his voice. Ask him what to do, but she can’t. So she just mutes it. Why did she come here without him? Bad things always happen when he’s not around. 

The footsteps are heavy, so probably male. They’re climbing the stairs. She hears the _creak_ from the middle section, the same one that startled her, getting close enough that she can tell there’s multiple sets.

Mike’s calling again. She turns off her phone. 

Doors start opening, ever so slowly. Hinges and wood squeak softly. Long moments will pass before she hears the footsteps again in the hallway, getting closer and closer. There’s muffled voices, but they're not speaking English. They’re not speaking any language she understands. 

_They’re not cops._

Ava pulls the hammer down, and backs away slowly towards the toilet. Light from the hallway spills in from under the door. Eyes filling with terrified tears, she watches as a shadow passes under the doorway to the bathroom. Every muscle inside her freezes.

She can’t fight. She couldn’t even fight off some gringo tweaker in a crackhouse. She has to shoot them. 

Ava crouches down slowly, picking a folded towel off the floor, and holding it against the barrel. It should muffle the blast, just enough. Just enough for one shot. She can take one out. The boy’s head exploding flashes in her mind again, and she steps onto the toilet, ready to climb out the window as soon as she discharges the gun. 

Agonizing seconds pass as the shadow stands still. Ava can almost hear them breathing through the wood. 

The shadow leaves.

A trembling breath releases from her chest as the footsteps grow further away. Relief washes through her, but only briefly, then—

The light vanishes as the lamp turns off. The footsteps return, stopping outside the bathroom, but she can’t see the shadow. She knows he’s there, whoever it is. They’re standing right outside the door. Through the darkness, she sees the glistening doorknob turn. The door creaks open slowly.

The flash of Raul’s revolver illuminates the room for a split second. Enough to see her shot go through the door, splintering the wood. Ava’s ringing ears still manage to pick up screaming and cursing. 

“The bitch _shot_ me!”

Ava’s scrambling through the small window. Her weak arms struggle to catch her weight as she squeezes her hips through, until her legs are dangling above the yard. She catches a quick glimpse of a man pushing through the doorway, stepping above a squealing heap on the floor, and she drops. 

Pain shoots through her right leg, but is silenced once her head impacts the ground. For a moment, she lays there, watching the roof of the house spin around with the tops of the trees, speckled by multicolored stars. The soft grass tickles the back of her neck and hands. 

Eventually, the sky holds still, and she pushes onto her knees with a moan. Her hands search the grass for her gun as the angry voices come through the open window. Ava takes the comforting grip, still warm from when she strangled it, and tucks it away before jumping to her feet.

She hobbles towards the street, momentarily slowing when she sees an opening in the fence, one that wasn’t there before. 

A gate. 

“Are you _fucking_ kidding me.”

As fast as she can, she limps down the street. The pain in her ankle gets worse with each step, but she doesn't stop. Neon lights from a gas station shine down the street, guiding her back towards her car and out of that suburban hellhole. Ava slows to a half skip, half jog once the green grass and stucco homes dissipate. The main road gives her more light, but the exposure is frightening. There’s nothing to hide behind. No cars or witnesses to be found at this hour. She’s an open target for whoever the hell that was.

Salamancas? Rosa Negra? Doesn’t matter. She has to keep moving.

Each sprint is agony, but Ava can’t stop. The tears have stopped flowing. All her focus is on running, biting back cries of pain as her ankle screams for her to let up, but she doesn’t. There's only a brick wall left. That's it. Just a brick wall behind the gas station, and she'll have cover. If she can just make it that far...

A hand snatches her the moment she rounds the corner. 

It's forceful and swift, shoving her up against the brick barrier and ejecting the air from her lungs. A hand clamps over her mouth, stifling the scream that attempts to escape. Immediately, Ava's free hands go for the face of her attacker, digging into the soft flesh and prickly stubble of their chin. Once their other hand secures her wrist, Ava's left to gawk in horror, then shock, at the man restraining her. 

Ignacio Varga stares down at her, a fresh slice on his cheek. Ava stills, taking in his exhausted, frightened brown eyes, panting harshly against the forearm that has her pinned.

Varga releases her wrist and places a finger to his lips. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yep. I split this chapter in half. I'm a longwinded writer.


	26. Three Moves Ahead

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Oh, Mama, I can hear you crying  
> You’re so scared and all alone  
> Hangman is coming down from the gallows  
> And I don’t have very long
> 
> "Renegade" by Styx

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Better late than never.

The Crossroads Motel is a distant memory, and not one Ava enjoys remembering. Yes, it was the day she became Ava Sangrado, stripping away whatever remained of her before. Becoming something new. But it was also a day of waiting in a diseased, moldy room, terrified of going near the window. Listening to the shitty music blaring a few rooms down as the stench of weed and sex and meth seeping into her skin. Promises of protection and safety, only to learn she’ll never be safe. 

A lesson taught by Ignacio Varga.

From an outward appearance, he was like every other _panderillo_ she’d met. Perhaps that’s why she’d initially been afraid, jumping behind her guardian like a child. Even after learning he was a mole for Fring, she was still wary. Anyone willing to rat can’t be trusted with anything, _especially_ by the people they’re ratting to. 

Even now, Ava trembles in his grasp. His muscular figure looms over her, washed in the light of the blue, neon sign. Sweat and cologne fill her desperate lungs as she attempts to breathe against the calloused hand. It covers half her face, reaching ear to ear. Ava takes a look at his broad shoulders. He could easily rip her jaw off, and part of her thinks he will. 

Whatever reason he’s there, it’s not a good one, but his stare isn’t on her.

Through the shadows, the street remains empty. Every brick, parking meter, and slab of concrete is painted in a sickly, pus-like hue from the street lamps. There his gaze settles, muscles tensed and alert, like a feral cat arching its back. Faint music plays from within the gas station, but other than that and their shallow breaths that seem to synchronize, there’s silence. 

Eerie, lifeless silence. 

In his trance, the hand loosens against her lips. Ava manages to squirm away from his grasp enough to utter a hushed and panicked, “ _Get off_.”

The lieutenant clamps the hand back over her mouth, careful not to smother her nose. His eyes meet hers, the dilated pupils swallowing all color, and he jabs his finger back against his lips. 

When his attention returns to the road, Ava makes another attempt to twist free, wedged between the wall and the dumpster. The alleyway seems to compress, grow smaller with each failure. Until she hears it.

A mechanical purr vibrates through the shadows. Against the darkened windows from a bank across the street, light flares. 

Headlights. 

The lieutenant releases her, though Ava makes no attempt to escape. She presses against the wall, trying to melt into the bricks. Varga puts his back to her and retreats further into the shadows, peering from behind the dumpster as a dark SUV slowly creeps into view. 

Neither of them breathe as it crawls down the road. Shrouded figures survey the surroundings through darkened windows. Varga inches further back, a bead of sweat dripping down his head while his hand hovers near his waist.

The engine roars loudly as the SUV speeds away.

The two of them release a sigh, and Ava nearly collapses. The pain has returned in her ankle, screaming more loudly than before. The lieutenant remains in front of her, still watching and surveying the street. 

“Move, please,” she mutters.

With that, Varga turns around, and Ava sees it again. The hostility from the motel, only this time, it’s directed at her. Instinct sends her hand shooting for her gun, only to have her wrist taken in an iron grasp.

“Wait—!”

Varga yanks her across the alleyway and shoves her through the metal door. Blinding fluorescent light washes out the surroundings. Colors burst against the whiteness as Ava’s slammed against a wall. Hot breath on her face tells her Varga is only inches away, able to crush her sternum with the ease of crushing a soda can.

“What are you doing here?” he demands softly. 

She sputters, “Wait—what am _I_ doing here?” 

“You come into town, fuck everybody over, then leave.” There’s a frightening calm in his voice, contradicting the anger in his eyes. “Is that how it works?”

Something sparks inside her, and she glares at him defiantly. “Why did you follow me?”

“You don’t get to ask the questions here, _cosita.”_

Trying to tug his arm off her is as useless as her ankle, but she does it anyway. More of a gesture of indignation than a worthwhile action. “You brought another set of psychotic shitbags after me, and _I’m_ the asshole?” 

His brow creases in irritation. “Who was that?”

“I don’t know.”

“Do better,” he growls. 

“How should I know?”

A sigh huffs against her face through flared nostrils. “Everything’s gone to shit since you showed up. And now, Amarante’s in New Mexico. He knows about my father.” 

“Of course he does,” she coughs. “You’re Lalo’s bitch. He probably—”

The pressure against her chest increases. Ava’s sure he’s going to break something, and she cries out softly.

“Give me one reason why I shouldn’t just hand you over now. End this whole fucking thing.”

The loud, melodic _ding_ turns both of their attention to store. The small hallway they’re tucked inside obscures the view to most of the interior, but they’re still able to see the glass doors slide open. A figure strolls inside, heading directly towards the back. 

Towards them. 

However, the threat dissolves when the figure of a teenage boy, obviously high off his mind, stares them down. Ava and Varga look at each other, observing the compromising position they’re in, and the lieutenant releases her immediately. The kid gawks at Varga, terrified, before ducking into the single person bathroom and locking the door with a loud _click._

Ava braces for more violence, but the lieutenant only grabs her forearm, tugging her slowly but forcefully into the main area of the store. The attendant, a tired looking man with a receding hairline, only glances up momentarily before returning to a paperback in his massive hands.

Varga’s eyes scan the large windows that open into the bilious night street. After two seconds, he’s back in his trance, and Ava looks warily at the attendant. A cry for help forms in her throat, and she opens her mouth, only to have a hand squeeze her arm. 

“Don’t,” Varga threatens.

“I didn’t come here to run,” she mutters, maybe too loudly. 

The attendant is now staring through thick rimmed glasses. Ava casts her eyes downward and tugs Varga along into one of the aisles. The man, at least for her, vanishes behind a colorful barrier of Doritos and Lays. 

She repeats, much quieter, “I wasn’t running away.”

Still keeping an iron grasp on her arm, Varga pretends to browse the snacks with her. “Lalo starts a war with Rosa Negra, you disappear to the next town. See how that looks?”

“What, a girl can’t take a day for herself?” she lies, hand touching the small lump in her pocket. 

The lieutenant plucks a bag of Cheetos off the shelf, the crinkling masking his words. “Lalo attacked Shell.”

“I know. I get the newsletter.” 

“The refinery wasn’t there,” he growls, unamused. He sets the chips back down. “Did you know?”

She shakes her head, voice strong with sincerity, “No.”

“Where is it?”

“I don’t know—“

He jostles her, a gesture that causes her free had to go up in defense. 

“Stop. _Lying_.”

“I’m not lying,” she insists. “I’m not some encyclopedia, okay?”

The door slides open once more with a _ding._ The top of a bald head walks past the two of them. Once they’re out of earshot, she continues. 

“I don’t actually know everything,” she tells him. “I only act like it.”

“First thing you’ve said that’s not bullshit.”

“Look, Vaas told me the refinery was at some pig farm near Roswell, but that was a long time ago, before everything. I figured he either lied or moved it in case I went to the feds after I ran. The next best thing would be his distribution center in Las Lunas. He couldn’t move that. Only burn evidence and wait it out.” The lieutenant’s jaw relaxes, and she knows her words are getting through. “Gus agreed, and told you to tell Lalo. He said if anyone could breach it, it would be the Salamanca Twins. They’re like the T-1000.” She pauses when he locks eyes with her again. “... Not his words.”

The lieutenant rubs his head. 

“Why are you here?” she demands with a shove. “Last I checked, Mike told you to stay away from me. And I liked that idea a lot.”

“Last I checked, the old man doesn’t call the shots.” Deciding they’ve spent enough time in this aisle, Varga starts tugging her along to the next one, still trying to keep distance between them and the attendant. “I’m protecting my investment. And it’s a good thing I did. You could say thank you.”

“And you’ve done what, exactly?” 

“Right now, I’m saving your ass. Risking my own. A little gratitude would be nice.”

“You’re right. Thanks for stalking me, and pointing out that I was followed. No one could’ve figured that out. I’m so glad you’re financially required to help me.” She adds, much more venomously. “Go fuck yourself.” 

The door opens again. This time, the patron walks past their aisle, trying to keep his head down, though Ava catches a glimpse of his neck. An ornate, black orthodox cross adorns his throat, right under his thick jaw. His black eyes quickly look away when he sees her gaze. 

_You’ve seen that before,_ the voice says against the back of her mind.

Varga’s tight grip pulls her out of her stupor. “Watch it, _cosita._ There’s still time to hand you over to them.”

The threat goes unheard. Ava looks to the man observing the liquor, like he’s never laid eyes on alcohol before. Shaved, pale as snow, with black ink up to his jawbone. His head keeps pivoting towards them, stopping just before she could get a good view of his face, but she knows the profile. The floor drops out from underneath her.

 _No, we’ve definitely seen_ him _before,_ Vaas jeers.

Now it makes sense why she couldn’t understand what they were saying in the house. It wasn’t English or Spanish. 

“Varga.”

The lieutenant doesn’t move. “What?”

“I _know_ him.”

His head whips back around, eyes darting around the store. “What?”

Ava leans in, muttering quietly. “By the Budweiser. I know him.”

”What do mean?”

She whispers harshly. “I‘ve seen him before. On jobs with Mike.”

Varga glances quickly in the direction. “Are you sure?”

“Yeah,” she says, voice weak. “Where’s your car?”

“Down the street.” His grip has lessened. “About a block.”

Before they can take a step, the door opens again. Ava sees the short, black hair and the white smile. He looks the same as he had at the exchanges with Mike; clean, leather clad, and smug as hell. Their only escape is blocked by the two men as they enter the aisle, the smaller one approaching with a swagger in his step. 

Her blood boils when he purrs, “Hello again, my dear.”

Ava balls her fists in rage, which only grows the smirk peaking through his beard.

“I am happy I found you,” he says, craning his neck to look behind her. “Just in time, I suppose. Before… Wait, is that—?”

More than anything, she wants to knock the teeth from his gums. She goes to take a step, only to have an arm snake around her waist. Varga pulls her back, tucking her small frame against his side.

“Varga.” The Serbian extends his arms outwards. “It is a pleasure to see you again. What has it been? Two years?” Casualness and civility is dripping from his lips. “How is Tuco? Last I heard, he bit off his cellmate's finger.”

If that’s a joke, Ava can’t tell, and the lieutenant gives her no indication it was. She’s pulled along as Varga retreats further down the aisle, still trying to keep her close. The sight gives the Serbian pause, and his head tilts in curiosity. Ava watches something formulate in his mind, and once its complete, his eyes narrow to slits.

A new edge appears in his voice. “What is this?”

Varga takes another step back, only to find their friend from the liquor fridge has joined them on the opposite end. 

“I think we have a misunderstanding—”

Varga growls through Ava’s hair. “Damn straight.” 

“I’m not here to make trouble, Varga.” The Seriban keeps his smile, but lowers his voice. “I think there’s been enough of that. Why don’t we step outside? Better to work this out peacefully, without an audience.” 

The Serbian gestures towards the attendant, drawing both of their gazes briefly. He’s shifting uncomfortable

“No, I’m good,” the lieutenant says quickly.

Ava chimes, “Yeah, me too.”

Varga hisses softly, “Shut up.” 

“You always make things difficult, my dear,” the Serbian says coyly. He takes a step closer, addressing only her. “I knew there was something wrong with you. Gustavo is a picky man. To let someone so young and vulnerable into their operation, I have to say I was suspicious. Imagine my surprise when the Colombians put a price out on a pretty girl with dark hair and pretty, pretty eyes. It all just clicked, as you say.” He then directs his gaze to Varga. “But I am sure you know about this.”

Varga shifts against her. “Yeah, I know who she is.”

“Well, perhaps we can negotiate?” he suggests cheerfully. “None of us have more of a grievance with the Colombians than Eduardo, but someone is very eager to see this one again, and the price is for a warm body. Maybe it’s best if we… Restore the natural order of things. I will even tell him you helped, Varga. Mend fences.”

A hand appears at the small of her back, feeling for her gun. Panic rises in her chest, and Ava tries to look towards the attendant. She can’t see him without breaking the lieutenant’s hold. 

Varga responds, “The Salamancas don't negotiate. I’m walking out of here with this one.”

The lieutenant is calm, but Ava can feel his heart pounding against her shoulder. The hand gripping her waist is trembling. The men around them step closer, and the message is clear: They’re not going to let them leave.

The Serbian is annoyed, but still smiles. “I see. But unfortunately, this little _kuchka_ shot one of my men. There are consequences to these things. Gustavo and Amarante have failed to teach her this.” He addresses her again, a new shade passing over his eyes. A moist, calloused finger brushes her hair away. “I would love to fix that.”

Varga’s heart starts beating faster, if that’s even possible, but his breathing is still calm. “Whatever Rosa Negra’s offering for her head, we’ll double it. But this one’s coming with me.”

“Is that so?” the Serbian smirks.

“Yeah, it is.” Stepping to the side, Varga tugs her along as he tries to maneuver around them. There’s some wavering in his tone. “Lalo’s got a score to settle with her boyfriend. Not a better card to play then getting his favorite pet.” 

For good measure, he tugs at her hair. 

Once again, the man’s blocking their way, eyeing Varga with suspicion. “Strange that Lalo would send his second man alone to do such an important task.”

Ava feels Varga’s breath retract, but his face remains stoic.

The smirk reappears on the Serbian’s face. “... Unless, Lalo doesn’t know you are here.”

The man behind them steps closer. 

“Now, why would that be?” the Serbian inquires.

An idea pops into her head. It’s quick, and weak, but it takes hold. While maintaining eye contact with the Serbian, Ava slowly moves her hand, lacing her fingers through Varga’s. It’s clammy and shaking, but she holds it still, squeezing it like a vise. 

It takes a while, longer than she expected, for the Serbian to understand the gesture. But once he does, his smile fades.

“You are joking.” There’s no amusement in his face.

Ava focuses all anger and panic into her hand. The lieutenant keeps his gaze on her, before returning the grip.

“I did not know you were stupid, _moja draga_ ,” the Serbian mutters.

“She’s coming with me,” Varga repeats. He steps forward to get in his face, taking Ava long with him. “That fucker just cost Lalo four of his men. You wanna be the reason he loses this? You really want all of Juarez gunning for your ass?” Varga’s confidence has re-emerged. “Try to stop us.”

Hand in hand, Varga walks her to the door. 

“You are making a mistake,” the Serbian says.

As they round the corner of the aisle, Ava glances over her shoulder and spits at the man, “Get fucked, Chekov.”

Somehow, once they’re outside, she doesn’t feel safer. Despite the massive lights from the gas station, the street seems darker. More quiet, especially the further and further they get, Ava struggling to keep up with Varga’s pace with her bad ankle. The black, lifeless eyes of the buildings stare down at the two of them, and Ava’s certain they’re being watched. But when she looks over her shoulder, back towards the gas station, she sees nothing. A chill travels up her spine, and she tightens her grip on Varga’s hand. 

He tries to turn her down an alley, but she tugs him away.

“My car’s closer.” 

Varga looks at her in disbelief. “They know what car you drive.”

“They know what I look like. Who gives a shit?”

He relents and lets her drag him away. She doesn’t let go until they’re at her Volvo, and Varga releases her hand. He gestures for something. Ava understands and pulls the keys out of her jacket.

“I’m driving,” she declares.

Varga rolls his eyes. “No, you’re not.”

“It’s my car—”

“I’m not arguing, _cosita,_ ” he says, getting in her face. “Give me the damn keys.”

She sighs and relents, handing them over.

“You think they bought it?” Ava pants, climbing into the passenger seat.

Varga shakes his head. “I wouldn’t.”

The car takes off, tires screeching and black smoke puffing from behind them. The lieutenant keeps his head on a swivel, staring at every alley and street, only to find them empty. 

“I hope whatever you came here for was worth it,” Varga huffs.

Ava touches her pocket again. “It will be,” she mutters.

Rather than head for the freeway, the car snakes through the streets of Santa Fe, opting to take the backroads instead of the freeway. It’s remote and open, not a lot of places to hide. 

“What do we do now?” she asks. 

“ _We?”_ he repeats sarcastically. “ _We_ don’t do anything. What happens now is you’re Fring’s problem. I’m taking you to him. He’s gonna keep you alive, work out some deal with Amarante, and then let him and Lalo kill each other.” He sighs, some new expression coming over his face, one that doesn’t look sour or angry. “You’ll never have to see me again.”

Ava sits with his statement for a few moments. “You’re running away?” 

Varga bites his lip. 

“After you were just giving me shit, _you’re_ running away?”

“This is all happening because of _you_ ,” Varga barks. “I got people. People I care about, and I’m not going to let that psychotic _cabron_ —“

Ava hears the glass crack first. A mist of blood hits the side of her face.

The tires squeal as the car barrels to the side of the road, stopping just shy of a telephone pole, but Ava still manages to hit her head on the dashboard. For a moment, she sits there, head spinning and ears ringing. The undeniable scent of iron fills the car.

“V—Varga?” 

Varga’s moaning, gripping the side of his head. Scarlet oozes between his fingers. A small web extends from a hole in the windshield. The man lowers his hand, looking at the sight on his palm. The side of his face, where the ear should be, is mangled and bloody, but Ava doesn’t see the skull. 

“Your ear.” It’s gone.

The lieutenant hisses, releasing every curse she’s ever heard. He slides down the seat as best he can. “Where did it come from?”

Keeping her head down, the girl peers over the door. The moon has smothered all shadows, but there’s still a few buildings, rickety and abandoned, with plenty of open, dead windows gaping at them. Ava follows the direction of the hole, trying to peer through the blood and cracked glass.

Another silent force whizzes past her hand, striking the backseat. Ava presses herself to the seat, hands covering her head. Two more strike the headrest, just inches above Varga’s skull. 

Though it’s obscured, they watch in terror as two SUVs appear through the impotent windshield, forming a barrier across the road. 

“I guess he didn’t buy it,” Varga grunts.

Figures start pouring out, each one holding a weapon. Black masks with crudely drawn skulls cover their faces. Against the darkness, they look like ghosts. Creatures from a nightmare, one that Ava had hoped she’d never have again.

It’s them.

They found her.

”Can you drive?” She doesn’t even feel the words leave her mouth.

Even Varga looks white, though it could be the blood soaking into his shirt. 

“... Yeah,” Varga pants. “Yeah, I can.”

“Get ready to fucking drive.”

One final figure exits one of the SUVs, one not masked. It takes a moment for her eyes to focus, see past the shattered glass and blood spray, but once they do, her stomach drops. The air is sucked out of her lungs, and she gawks at the unmistakable figure. Unable to move. Unable to scream. Feeling as if the car around her is slowly compacting, ready to crush her to pieces. 

Vaas.


	27. La Pelea Con El Diablo

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “The Causeway” by Henry Jackman.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> TRANSLATIONS:  
> Carajo - "dick" ; used as an exclamation, thank you LadyKatie.  
> Quieres conducir, cariño - "Do you want to drive, sweetheart?"  
> Miren esto, parceros - "Look what we have here, my firends?"  
> Este es quien sirve a Don Eladio - "Is this who serves Don Eladio?"  
> Es eso quien envía Vaas - "Is this who Vaas sends?"  
> Viene pronto. Te quiere vivo. Por ahora. Para enviarte a Lalito en pedazos. Cómo Felix. - He's coming. He wants you alive for now. To send you to little Lalo in pieces. Like Felix.  
> Mirame - "Look at me"  
> Yo solo te extrañe - "I just missed you."  
> Puedo dormir aquí esta noche? - "Can I stay here tonight?"

No one in the business had ever spoken of Vaas Amarante descriptively. 

Plenty could be said about his father, Rafael Amarante. The late Don of Rosa Negra was a towering figure. Short, black hair and a salt and pepper beard. Dark brown eyes permanently in a squint. Always dressed in suits and thick gold rings adorning each of his fingers. Even Raul Narvaez was well known for his small, unimposing stature and _el chico guapo_ features, which allowed him to disarm opponents when they underestimated his intelligence. 

But not Vaas. Reputation was louder than appearance, and Nacho doesn’t even know who stands in front of them. It’s all clear once he looks to his right. The air has been sucked from her lungs, and he watches the girl’s chest struggle to rise and fall in any sort of pattern. Color has evaporated from her face. Rictus fingers dig into the seat as she stares transfixed by the man outside. 

Then Nacho understands. 

Red taillights mix with the urine like-hue from the single street lamp, surrounding the caravan in a strange inferno, the rest of the world around them swallowed up by darkness. Demons surrounding an otherworldly creature as it emerges from the pit of Hell. Only it’s just a man. 

There’s no colorful flamboyance like Tuco, or calculating sharpness like Gustavo Fring. Just a man, dressed like he’s returned from combat. A man that doesn’t even squint against the light beaming into his black eyes as he steps forward. Not an ounce of fat sits on his trim body, like a chained animal that only eats when it’s fed. His neck and wrists are adorned with all sorts of ornaments; watches, rings, chains, all different styles and sizes. 

Collected, not bought. Won. Like trophies. 

The monster breaks away from the henchmen, the blade of a machete glinting against the headlights. He swings it near his hip with a childlike disregard. 

Terror has numbed the pain in his temple. He watches and waits, as paralyzed as the person next to him, hand throttling the grip of a gun. It’s useless. Nacho counts at least seven weapons with four times the firepower, all aimed at the small, metallic shell encasing them. He’ll be full of holes the second he moves.

“Varga.”

It’s not a question. It’s not a taunt. He says Nacho’s name as if they ran into each other. As if Amarante was expecting him. He takes one more step, peering through the holes in the windshield, a look in his eye that Nacho’s only seen in the Twins. Not a shred of human emotion. Not anger or fear or even bloodlust. Just concentration and hyperfixation as he paces back and forth like a caged predator. A need to accomplish a task, with only a single obstacle standing in the way.

Then, the animal roars.

_“Varga!”_

It’s quick and piercing, penetrating through the vehicle. The girl winces violently, like she'd just been struck across the face.

The predator takes another step forward, the corpse-like eyes reading every thought coming into his head. His shoulders set back, brow raising to contort his face into an expression that mimics confusion. Thinking. Analyzing. A tiger peering through the grass. 

_So this is how it happens._

Cowering in terror. Dying in someone else’s war next to a stranger. 

He just prays it’s fast. That it ends now. That he doesn’t have to choke on his own blood or watch what happens to the girl. Once he’s taken out, she’s next. He doesn’t want to see her ripped apart. Doesn’t want her screams to be the last thing he hears. 

She is trembling from head to foot. Gone is the brash, feisty demeanor from earlier, replaced by a terrified child awaiting a lashing from an angry parent. No fight left. Only fear. 

If this is how it ends, Nacho is _not_ going down like a coward. ****

With resolve, Nacho reaches for the gear shift, slow enough that his movements can’t register through the broken glass. 

“Get down,” he whispers. 

The second he shifts out of park, the lights will flash and they’ll know. They don’t know the kid is in there with him, otherwise, they would’ve converged by now. They’re toying with him, but once they know, they’ll start firing. He’ll have to be fast. The girl shudders out a breath, but obeys, sliding down into the space beneath the dashboard. 

“Hold on.”

Reverse, then it’s just a few yards and a right turn. That’s all he has to make it through. Sweat mingles with the blood that’s gushing down his neck, and he squeezes the gears…

Nacho slams down on the gas as soon as he hears the _click._

The car jolts backwards, but the bullets don’t start peppering the hood until he’s barreling forward, keeping his head against the steering wheel. There’s no _thunk._ No impact above the relentless hail that hits metal. He doesn’t dare look, just counts, waiting for the perfect moment to yank the car to the right. And when he does, a chorus of rubber shrieks erupts from underneath him. Then it’s straight forward. Blindly and stupidly.

Nacho doesn’t let himself peek until the bullets have stopped.

By some miracle, their vehicle is still going straight down the street, the New Mexico sun rising slowly in front of them, turning the sky dark blue. The rear window is gone. Millions and millions of shards littering the backseat. In the distance, one of the SUVs is kicking up, preparing to give chase, and Nacho hurriedly turns. 

Something lightweight smacks the passenger door. In his peripheral, the girl is massaging her head and attempting to steady herself in the seat. She struggles to latch herself in. 

“Brought the whole damn calvary,” he shouts. His ear is still ringing. “You must’ve really pissed him off.”

She shakes her head, dazed. “Go back to town.”

“What—?”

“He won’t follow. There’s too many—”

Nacho almost doesn’t see it in time. The SUV appears from a side street, only registering as a threat when it’s mere inches from colliding into their vehicle. Nacho slams on the breaks, barely missing the tail light from the SUV. 

_“Carajo!”_

Black eyes stare through white, ghostly masks. Fierce and blood hungry, until they fall on something over Nacho’s shoulder. The savagery vaporizes, replaced with shock.

“Holy—”

An ungodly, ear shattering sound rips through the mangled flesh on the side of his head. The pain overpowers the scent of discharge that chokes his lungs. A masked head jolts backwards, exploding like a balloon. The girl’s holding a revolver, like from an old western moving, right next to his head. A monstrous look in her eyes that falls on him briefly. 

For a moment, he forgets who she is, waiting for the gun to point at him.

“Go!” she demands. 

Nacho presses down on the gas, further damaging the backlight of the SUV. As he sharply turns, the other car follows, tires screeching like an aggravated beast. Every spontaneous turn and maneuver Nacho attempts, the SUV mimics, bobbing and weaving from one lane to another. Cutting him off from turning. Leading him further and further from civilization and into the desert wasteland. 

It succeeds as Nacho watches the morning lights of the city disappear behind them. 

“Where are you going?” snaps his unwarranted copilot.

 _“Quieres conducir, cariño?”_ he snaps back. “Why don’t you fire back?”

In the mirror, the SUV has settled on its course, just a few feet to the left, searching for the best opportunity to fire. Windows roll down. A weapon is being loaded. 

Up ahead, he sees the road thinning, turning sharply to the right before the earth drops off. 

An idea pops into his head, and he speeds up. 

The girl grips his seat, nearly spitting, “What the fuck are you doing?”

He ignores her. The SUV gains on them. 

“Hold on,” he tells her. 

Again, he slams on the breaks and jerks the car to the right. 

The SUV zooms past them, it’s brakes screeching as it carines towards the edge. Dust explodes as it crunches into the shallow ravine. There’s no time to relish the victory. Masked men pour out, weapons ready, aimed to disable their own vehicle. Nacho whips around completely, speeding back towards the city, and the girl takes aim. 

It takes three shots, but one falls to the ground.

Both struggle to catch their breaths above the roaring of the wind slicing through the shattered windows. 

Eventually, the girl pipes up, watching as the Interstate 25 sign passes by.

“Hey, _cabrón,_ what are you doing?”

Nacho grits his teeth and rolls his eyes. They get out of this, he might kill her himself. There’s no explanation for the state of their vehicle that isn’t going to arouse suspicion, especially with the driver. “Two bloody Mexicans in this piece of shit. You think that won’t draw attention?”

The fire returns. _“Mi madre era cubana, pendejo!”_

“No wonder you’re an asshole—”

_“Varga—!”_

The entire world erupts in a dissonant cry of metal and glass. An ungodly force thrusts him against the door, cracking his skull, and everything goes black **.**

The surroundings come back gradually. The slanted, early morning desert coming through a spiderweb of cracked glass. Unbearable pain pulses through him with every weak beat of his heart. A high, constant note rings through his head, until a long, desperate scream pulls him back completely. 

_“No!”_

It’s followed by pounding, glass crunching under heels. 

Someone laughs, deep and hoarse. _“Miren esto, parceros!”_

Next to him, he hears the thudding of rubber against the dashboard, and turns his stiff neck. The girl is being pulled through the window, kicking and screaming.

_“Get the fuck off me!”_

Another voice speaks. Smoother. American. “Get Varga.”

Drunkenly, Nacho reaches forward, trying to grab her ankle, but a hand grips the back of his skull and sends his forehead down into the center console. 

“Leave him alone!” the girl squeals.

Like a rag doll, he’s pulled through the door, dumped to the floor as sand and blood fill his mouth. 

“Motherfucker’s half dead,” says a thick voice above him.

Nacho tries only once to stand, and receives a kick to the ribs. 

“ _Get away from him!”_

Then he’s hoisted, slammed onto the hood of the car, his head turned to give him a decent view of the girl. She’s squirming in the grasp of a man three times her size as another looks on, gesturing towards a dark green truck. Still, she’s putting up a decent fight. The fat man’s straining to hold her still, face turning beet red. Eventually, he strikes her across the face. It’s loud. Painful. And ignites something in Nacho. He tries to break free.

Hands twist Nacho’s wrists. “Call the boss. Tell him we found her.”

“About damn time,” the fat man grunts, tossing her gun into the desert. “Can’t wait to get out of this shithole.”

The spare, dark one grins. “Wait until he gets his hands on you, _mamacita.”_

The girl screams. “NO! Varga—get off! Get off me, you fat fuck! _Varga!”_

Nacho’s wrists are twisted further, and he gurgles out in pain. A voice leans in, close enough that he can smell his sour breath, whispering into his ear, “Don’t worry. You’ll get your turn, too, _hombre._ ” He says it mockingly, highlighting his American accent. “Might even let you watch—”

The second the grip is loosened, even slightly, Nacho yanks his left hand free. He slices his elbow through the air, expecting to hit a nose or a jaw, but hears an agonized cough. Feels soft flesh and muscle, not bone. The man releases him, sputtering and clenching his throat. Eyes bulge from his freckled face as he collapses onto his knees.

From behind, he hears a panicked, “Shit!”

Nacho lunges for the sand as a bullet ricochets off the hood of the car. The ginger’s gun sits in the dirt, and Nacho grabs it, pressing it to his chest like a rosary. Back against the car, he waits, listening to the sound of boots approaching over wheezing and gasping. The moment he sees black hair over the top of the car, his finger squeezes the trigger.

It’s a miss, but the message is clear. The black haired man ducks for cover. Nacho crawls through the dirt, around to the back of the car. He peers over at the fat one, failing miserably to force the screaming and thrashing girl into the truck. His massive body pins her to the door as he grunts and curses to himself. 

He waits, trying to ignore the gunfire that strikes near the tail light. Red and yellow plastic bursts near his face. 

Finally, the fat man completely covers the girl. 

Nacho fires, and the entire window of the truck is painted red. 

The large body slumps to the asphalt. The girl’s frozen, still holding herself against the truck. Her small, frail body is convulsing in short, shallow gasps. 

Relief doesn’t get to set in. A hand seizes his throat, slamming him once again into the side of the car. The pistol clangs to the ground as a snarling, coyote-like face glares down at him. A fist collides with Nacho’s jaw. 

“ _Cabr_ _ó_ _n de Salamanca,”_ his attacker snarls. 

Once. twice. Four times. Blood flows from Nacho’s broken nose.

The man grips Nacho’s collar, holding up his weakening body and pulling him closer to his yellow sneer. _“Este es quien sirve a Don Eladio?”_

 _“Es eso quien envía Vaas?”_ Thick iron gushes through Nacho’s teeth. _“Un puto gordo, un gringo, y un maric_ _ó_ _n?”_

Another blow cracks against his jaw. Nacho’s sent tumbling onto the road, the gravel digging into his palms. Red slime drips from his mouth. He tries to get up, to look at the girl, but another kick lands in his gut. 

_“Viene pronto.”_ The man towers over him, watching as Nacho attempts to slowly crawl away, the desert reeling around him. _“Te quiere vivo. Por ahora. Para enviarte a Lalito en pedazos. Cómo Felix.”_

Nacho flips onto his back. A wicked grin grows on the man’s face.

_“No puedo esperar a escucharte gritar.”_

It happens too fast for anything to register in his mind. The flash of green. The loud, thunderous crash of metal. The pained, horrific scream that tears through the man, and is quickly silenced. When Nacho’s swollen mind catches up, the man’s pinned between the Volvo and the truck. His hands outstretched, clawing at the metal that’s crushing his abdomen. Bulging, terrified brown eyes staring through the windshield at the driver. 

Nacho doesn’t stand up until the man expires. 

He limps over to the truck. The girl’s gripping the steering wheel with all her might and desperation. Green eyes wide and wild, unmoving from the crushed man in front of her. An eerie sense of calm has overtaken her. Slow, steady, fluid breaths flow through her. 

One last breath, and she climbs out, strolling casually over to her car. Nacho watches in shock as she nonchalantly goes through her trunk, slinging a black bag over her shoulder. She then goes to the desert, stooping down in the sand, and returning her revolver to its place in her waistband.

She brushes lightly past Nacho, who’s struggling to stand on his feet.

“Let’s go.”

*******

Nacho hadn’t remembered driving home. Actually, he hadn’t remembered much after he got into his car, leaving the deal at Riverside after Tuco had uttered a grunt of, “We’re done here.”

It was like blacking out drunk. There weren't even sights or sounds or fragments. Suddenly, Nacho was just in the driveway. His old house. The one they first had after moving from Mexico, and would keep until his mamá would pass away in ‘99. The light above the garage was on. Always was. It guided him and his brothers home after dark, though it was still too early for them to be home. 

Trancelike, Nacho floated to the front door, his shaking hands fumbling with the keys. Nacho was the only son Papá trusted with the keys. The sick feeling in his stomach didn’t disappear when he stepped across the threshold. Nacho’s chest felt heavy. Stretched, like he’d been hyperventilating. 

He looked down. His yellow shirt was covered in a rusty, brown stain. Some splotches were still glistening with wetness. 

“Kiki?” 

The sudden sound of his mother’s voice nearly made him cry out. 

“Kiki? _Esta tu?”_

Nacho dove towards the bathroom, locking the door behind him. _“N-no, Mamá. Soy yo.”_

The sight in the mirror took his breath away. Blood was smeared on his face. By the pattern, Nacho had tried many times to wipe it off. All unsuccessful. It caked his face and throat, the stain on his shirt stopping just above his navel. How he hadn’t been pulled over was a mystery. 

_“Ignacito! Estás bien?”_ his mamá called. Her voice was closer to the door.

No, he wasn’t. His face was several shades lighter. The image replayed over and over in his mind. 

Dawg’s head, just exploding. Like a watermelon splatting on pavement. 

_“Si, Mamá. Estoy bien.”_

Even after the last of the blood swirled down the drain, Nacho still felt the stickiness on his skin. He peeled the shirt off. There was no saving it. He’d have to toss it before his parents saw. A small cut bled on his shoulder, and Nacho robotically bandaged it. 

Now clean, Nacho bunched up the ruined shirt and began the short trek to his bedroom. Before he could shut the door, someone took him by the arm. Nacho winced like he’d been shocked. 

“Ignacio?”

It was his mother, face twisted with concern. 

_“Ay, mijo. Mirame.”_ She reached up to stroke his cheek. “What happened?”

_“Nada, Mamá. Nada.”_

_“No manches, mijo. Mirame.”_

He took her hand. _“Yo solo te extrañe. Eso es todo.”_

She didn’t believe him, but didn’t push further. Somehow, Nacho figured his mother always knew what he was doing, even when his father didn’t. He figured she took that secret to the grave.

 _“Puedo dormir aquí esta noche?”_ He asked smally. 

_“Mijo, por supuesto que sí.”_ She kissed his forehead. _“No le dire a tu papá.”_

***

The pain hasn’t waned. It’s only intensified. 

The wound pulses against the freshly applied bandage. A rhythm of agony. How can something so small hurt so much? Of course, he didn’t know the full extent of the wound on his ear. Or any others. He hadn’t looked before the girl tended to it with the first aid kit she took from her trunk. Not once did he cry out, gritting his teeth and keeping his hands clutched between his legs. She does it with immense care, almost professionally, and Nacho wonders who taught her how; the old man, or the psychopath. 

The girl hasn’t said a word. Not to him, at least. He heard the faint dribblings between her and that asshole Victor over the phone through his good ear. Just a few hours ago she was staring him down. Telling him off. Now, she speaks robotically. Emotionlessly. 

Gravel crunches and she joins him in the bed of the truck, staring blankly out at the flat, barren wasteland. Neither of them look at each other. 

“What did he say?” Nacho asks weakly.

“Report the car stolen,” she repeats. “Ditch the truck. They’ll meet us up the road.” 

Flies buzz around their heads, searching for the stench of sweat and rot.

“You’re dad’s fine,” she adds. “Leo and Kiyan are watching him. For now.”

Suddenly, the battered ribs, throbbing eye, and bloody ear don’t matter. Nothing else matters. Tears sting his eyes. “Thank god.”

A silence falls between them. 

“Can you walk?” he asks.

There’s a quiet, “Yeah.”

There’s still plenty of evidence in the truck, with the Rosa Negra asshole’s blood all over the grill. However, being in the middle of the desert, there’s no telling when someone could find it. Could be tomorrow, or in ten years. Nacho will hopefully be long gone by then. Together, they push the truck into a ditch. The impact causes little damage. 

And, together, they walk in silence towards a distant structure, one that appears closer than reality. It takes longer to walk than anticipated, Nacho grunting against his bruised rib cage and the girl limping a few feet behind him. By the time they reach it, his lips are dry and his face is pouring. A single, square concrete building. It’s a shell. Never anything more than walls and holes for windows, but it supplies shade and cover from the main road. They sit with their backs against the wall, enjoying the small relief they receive from the gradually rising temperature. Insects swarm Nacho’s bandages and try to drink from his eyes. 

For a while, they just sit. Bloodied and exhausted after a night in hell. His hands are still shaking and he’s trying to mask it, clutching them together in his lap. Everything in his body is groaning; his stomach, his head, his ribs. He needs to eat, sleep, shower, and drink. More than anything, he wants to sleep, but he knows he can’t. 

Not until his father is a thousand miles away from this godforsaken city. That fucker’s out there. He knows about his father. _He knows._ And he doesn’t trust for one second that Gus’s men will give a damn about his father’s safety for longer than a day.

“I’m sorry.”

Nacho looks down at the girl, hugging her knees next to him. A deep shade of purple is growing under her eye, and he’s now noticing that fat asshole split her lip. 

He clenches his teeth. “About what?”

She shrugs. “Take your pick.”

“Whatever you came here for, I hope it was worth it.”

“It will be,” she says softly. “It has to be.”

There’s something on the tip of her tongue. Something she wants to say. Nacho watches her brain attempt to form the words.

“I always wondered, y’know, why me?” she begins. “Like, why am I still alive, when everyone else I know isn’t? Why did I survive the fire? How did I not bleed out in the desert or die when I crashed the car? Why did Vaas keep me around when I just wanted to die?” She scratches absently at a spot on her wrist. “That one most of all. But… Against everything, I just... Kept getting lucky, I guess. If you can call it that. So I thought, maybe it wasn’t luck. Maybe there was a reason I’m still alive.”

His chest is starting to constrict. Something’s caught in his throat.

Her voice wavers. “I just… There’s gotta be a reason. After everything… All the killing and— just everything he did to me and everyone else. There’s gotta be a reason why I’m still here.”

“...What if there’s not?”

The girl shoots him a hurt look. Nacho feels a little tinge of guilt.

“M’sorry, _cosita,_ I’ve just been in this business for a long time. I’ve seen and done a lot of shit. People make choices. Selfish and shitty ones and everyone else has to deal with the fall out. There’s never some plan from God or the universe or whatever the hell controls everything. It’s just… Shitty people doing shitty things.” He digresses, looking down at her. “Like whatever he did to you. It wasn’t you. It was him, but you had to take the licking. It wasn’t your fault.”

Her jaw tightens. “... It can’t have been for nothing, though.”

He understands that. Everything that he’s done, to himself, to his brothers and his father, he doesn’t want it to be for nothing. It can’t be for nothing.

“So don’t let it be,” Nacho says. “That’s for you to decide, not God or the universe. Just you.”

His words sink in slowly. Nacho’s surprised they’re coming from him. He absently tries to itch at the stub, only to feel bandages and the absence of an appendage. 

The girl takes notice, muttering, “I’m sorry about your ear.”

Nacho can’t help but laugh. The ridiculously innocent way she said that was too much. Sounds like his little brother, apologizing for crashing his bike.

“One time, this dealer I had came up short. I had to show some balls. Make a point. The dealer wore earrings. I ripped one out.” He rubs the back of his neck, feeling her gaze on his face, but he doesn’t see an ounce of judgement. Just interest. “I didn’t want to, but, y’know. I had to play the part. And I’ve done much worse before and since, but… Shitty choice, shitty consequence,” he says with a shrug.

“You’re saying it’s karma?”

“Yeah, for breaking into your hotel room,” he says with a smirk.

“Does your dad know what you do?”

The question takes him off guard. “... Yeah.” 

“What are you going to do?”

Convincing his father to run would be damn near impossible, and with Lalo still kicking around, they’d have to look over their shoulders for the rest of their lives. He could risk it and hope that the bastard dies in his pissing match with the Colombians, but there’s still no guarantee. He’d be damning his father to a life of paranoia and anxiety. 

It’s a good way to stay alive, but not live.

“I was thinking about skipping town, but I don’t think I could convince him to leave. It’d ruin his life.” He rubs his eyes. “Also, I think I just fucked you over even more.”

“What do you mean?”

“Vaas thinks Lalo killed Raul Narvaez and kidnapped you. Now, they’ve seen us together. So that’s completely gone. If he didn’t think you were ratting before, now he definitely does.”

There’s a long pause. 

“What if I did?” she suggests. 

“What?”

“What if I worked for Lalo?” 

A car approaches, and he tenses. A black Chrysler, slowing to a stop just a few yards from the structure. Nacho stands, putting himself between the girl and the vehicle.

However, she’s not afraid.

“Son of a bitch,” she whispers.

Mike Ehrmantraut’s usual grumpy, stoic demeanor has increased a thousand fold. His blue eyes dig into Nacho, fists clenched and shaking in rage. Mike looks behind the younger man, clenching his jaw when he sees the state of the girl. 

The girl steps forward, “Mike—”

“Get your ass in the car before I rip your goddamn head off.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Again, just so grateful for the love. I’m ridiculously busy right now, trying to do other projects and a bunch of other things, but I want to finish this story. This next chapter that’s coming up, I actually wrote six months ago, before a lot of the other stuff. I’m really excited for you guys to see it.


	28. One Thing You Can Never Do

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "It Can't Last" by Gustavo Santaolalla

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I wrote this chapter last June, because I knew this is where the story was going. It just took a lot longer to get here than I thought. I couldn't rush it. I had to let the characters get here in their own time. A while ago I learned about the difference between plot and story. Plot is more surface level, while story is emotions and change that happens to the characters. And while the stuff with the villains is fun to write, that's the plot. This is the story, and what I really wanted to write about. But I had to use the plot to get us here, so thanks for being patient, anyone who's made it this far.

The knot in his stomach is back with a vengeance. 

Victor told him to bring them here. That has to be a good sign. Had Fring wanted them done away with, he would’ve told him by now, and he definitely wouldn’t have Mike bring them to the laundromat in broad daylight. Even if it’s a Sunday and the place is empty. It would be too risky. Too messy. And he definitely wouldn’t let him get her cleaned up. Give her fresh clothes. Everything’s fine.

So why can’t he stop pacing?

Ever since he found her apartment empty, Mike’s been unable to drop his heart rate below 120. If he stills, his hands start twitching. His head swivels and stretches on top of his neck, like he’s fighting a tick. A violent one. The only thing to mask it is to keep moving. Eventually, the adrenaline’s got to run out. Right?

The Salamanca mole sits silently on the folding chair, tucked in the corner of the freshly installed equipment. He’s been watching Mike ever since the shower started running. A million dollar meth lab, nearly fully operational, and it’s being used by a teenager like a dorm room. 

Out of the two of them, Varga’s definitely in the worst shape. The young man’s been beaten half to hell. Wet, thick breaths move through his broken nose and parted lips. Vacant, swollen brown eyes follow the old man’s pattern of back and forth, back and forth, next to the giant, metallic vats. Part of Mike feels satisfied. He told the young man to stay away from her. If Amarante’s men hadn’t kicked the shit out of him, Mike would’ve. That might’ve calmed his nerves, just a bit.

After minutes of keeping his jaw locked, Varga speaks up. “Your boss gonna off a little girl?” 

Mike halts his pacing. If eyes could stab, Varga would be much more bloody.

The younger man casts his eyes down. “Yeah, you’re right. He’d taken us to the desert.” His last word is stifled, and Varga massages his ribcage. “He’d do it, too, y’know. Off a kid—”

“Shut it.”

The water in the other room has stopped. Mike’s head turns towards the closed door.

Varga pipes up again. “They’re not different.”

Mike’s blood boils again, hot in his veins. 

“I saw him tonight,” Varga presses. “Amarante. Looked him in the eye. I saw nothing new. Nothing different from the man you work for.”

Nails dig into Mike’s palms.

“Him and Fring are no different—”

Mike snaps his teeth. “Not another goddamn word.”

Unshaken, Varga stares him down. Let’s Mike take a few harsh, loud breaths, before whispering. “She traded one monster for another.”

“So did you.”

The door to the shower opens.

Ava emerges, completely cleansed of someone else’s blood, the bundle of stained clothing in her hand. Fresh clothes and a shower did nothing to improve her ragged appearance. Red, sleep deprived eyes stare at the floor as she makes her way over to the extra chair. A deep, purple bruise hovers above her split lip. Her dark hair is a wet, tangled mass slumped against her shoulders. As she takes her seat, Mike denies her of every attempt to meet his eye. 

“Here’s what’s gonna happen,” Mike begins, hid body facing the both of them, but still averting his gaze from the girl. Neither of them bother to look up from the floor. “When Fring gets here, you both say nothing. You sit there and listen. You don’t argue. You don’t make excuses. You sit still and shut up.” He raises his volume towards Varga. “You especially.”

“It wasn’t his fault,” Ava mutters. 

Mike barks, “What did I say?”

Sinking into her chair, the young girl crosses her arms over her chest.

The door above creaks open. Varga and Mike jump, but Ava remains still, slouching closer and closer to the ground. Tyrus clangs across the catwalk and descends the spiral staircase, his eyes trained on Varga as a smirk twitches on his lips. Tyrus let’s it appear when his foot touches the ground. 

“You look like shit,” he jeers.

Animosity steams off the cut man. Mike heard the story of Varga’s unwitting recruitment as a mole. Tyrus and Victor shot him in the desert, left him bleeding out, all for a cover up. Varga barely made it. Mike doesn’t blame him for still harboring hard feelings. 

Tyrus strolls past the two in the chairs, his eyes lingering on Ava for longer than Mike’s happy with. “Gus’s on his way,” Tyrus explains, pulling his attention away from the girl and looking at the old man. “Bolsa and Eladio are livid—”

“They know?” Mike cuts in, trying to mask his panic.

“About these two?” Tyrus says with a nod towards Varga and Ava. “No. Bolsa wants answers about those four dickless pinatas we found last night. Gus is trying to convince him not to send any additional men up from _el ciudad._ ” He lowers his voice even further. “We already got Lalo. The last thing we need is some Juarez assholes poking around.”

His words seem to reverberate inside the space. Forget concealing Ava from the Salamancas. There’s no explaining away a secret, million dollar project underneath a laundromat.

“They won’t find anything,” Mike insists halfheartedly.

Varga pipes up. “You sure about that?”

“Hey _, cabron_ ,” Tyrus growls. “If I were you, I’d keep your mouth shut. The only reason you and Papa are still kicking is because _Miss Congeniality_ here isn’t dead.”

Varga bites his swollen lip and casts his gaze away. 

Gus’s man lowers his voice again, his body angling away from the two of them. “Look, we couldn’t get to the car in time. She reported it stolen, but the DEA’s all over Santa Fe now. Madrigal’s been talking with our insiders in _Rosa Negra,_ trying to make a deal if Vaas gets taken out. But if this —” he points at her “— little fuck up gets out, it’s gonna be damn near impossible to convince Schuler that she’s capable, much less the people she fucked over in Colombia.” 

A chill goes up Mike’s spine. “What’s our next move?”

“I don’t know about Tuco’s bitch boy.” Tyrus glances over his shoulder. “I say just turn him loose, let him make up some story for Lalo. As for the kid, Gus wants her in Houston by tomorrow.”

The euphoric relief doesn’t get to set in. 

Metal scrapes across the cement behind him. “What?”

“Gus wants you in Houston, sweetheart,” Tyrus calls over Mike’s shoulder. “For protection.”

Protection. Seems a little too benevolent for Fring. Protection for her, from Amarante? Or protection for Fring and his operation from any potential problems? It doesn’t matter. Mike will be happy to get her far, far away from New Mexico. 

However, he’s not expecting the slight resistance.

“Fuck that. I’m staying here.”

The statement comes as a shock to Tyrus, who moves his head back slightly as his brow creases. Mike turns around to face her. She’s standing, fists and jaw clenched tightly. 

“Excuse me?” Mike challenges.

She’s unwavering. “I’m staying here.”

“After the shit you pulled today?” Mike steps away from Tyrus as his parental tone slips. “Running off alone? Breaking into a civilian’s house? I’m sorry, kiddo, but you’re in no position to make demands.”

He’s hoping that will end it, but she persists. 

“I’m done hiding from him. I can be useful. Here.” When her words have no effect, Ava pushes past Mike to Tyrus. “I know him. I know how he thinks. And Varga knows Lalo. We can lead them to each other—”

“Ava—”

“—How?”

Both Mike and Varga’s gazes snap to Gus’s man.

“How do you plan on doing that?” Tyrus muses.

“I go to Lalo,” Ava explains. “Or Varga brings me to him. Either way. Vaas already thinks I’m ratting to Lalo, so it won’t expose Gus—”

“What makes you think Lalo will listen to you?” Tyrus’s tone, for once, is degrading the girl. It’s a genuine question.

Ava takes a breath. “Because he’s desperate. Because, more than us, he wants Vaas gone.”

Of all people, he wouldn't think Tyrus would stomach this. However, the man is nodding to himself, consideration written all over his face. He offers the old man no support, but doesn’t stop him as Mike pushes back against Ava’s plan. A plan which involves throwing her directly into a cartel wood chipper. It doesn’t matter who got to her first, the Salamancas or _Rosa Negra,_ they’d eat her alive. 

“Let me get this through your thick skull.” Mike tries to maintain the composure in his voice. “The only thing Eduardo Salamanca will do when he sees you, if you’re lucky, is put a bullet in your head.”

“He won’t kill me,” she insists. “Because we want the same thing. We both want Vaas dead, and if I can help give him that, he’ll take it.”

“Do you even know who we’re dealing with?” Mike chastises. “What he’s capable of? Has everything we’ve done for you over the past three months gone completely over your head?”

Ava snaps back, “I know Gus wants him dead as much as Vaas. Hell, probably even more. Once Vaas is gone, we can take out Lalo and blame it on _Rosa Negra_. That way, Don Eladio and Bolsa suspect nothing. _Rosa Negra_ thinks the Salamancas killed Vaas, and they’re more than happy to help Gus knock off Don Eladio.”

Everyone falls silent, like the breath has been sucked out of the room. Tyrus directs a resentful glare towards Mike, almost accusatory. 

“That’s what this is all about, right?” she says, gesturing to the lab. “Taking the empire away from Don Eladio? Well, that’s how you can do it.”

Her words hang thickly in the air.

Among them, Varga glances up, and his whole demeanor changes. He straightens in his chair, his swollen eyes widening as much as possible. Mike follows his gaze, until a sight causes his heart to stop.

Gus Fring stands above them, exhausted and yet impeccably dressed. It’s unclear how much of their discussion he’s heard, though judging by his flat mouth, he heard enough. For a while, he stands there silently, taking a few, calculated breaths while Victor’s eyes dart between the four of them down below. Then he begins his slow descent, the soft clang of the metal echoing loudly inside Mike’s head. With a single gesture from Fring, Victor stays above them.

Once he’s on the ground, Fring approaches Ava as Mike watches helplessly. 

“What can you offer Lalo?” 

Mike tries to intervene. “Fring—”

Fring cuts him off. “Amarante’s investors have abandoned him. His distribution center is in peril. What can you offer Lalo that he does not already possess?”

Ava’s voice struggles. “I—I know where he’ll be.”

“How?”

Wordlessly, Ava’s trembling hand reaches into her pocket. She unfolds her fist, revealing a thumbdrive.

Fring’s eyes move between her and the device. He picks it from her hand, turning it three times between his fingers, before returning it to her. His expression hasn’t changed. 

“I have a price,” Ava says weakly. 

Tyrus and Varga suck in a sharp breath. 

“And what is that?” 

“Varga’s dad is given protection until both Vaas and Lalo are dead. After that, I’ll do anything you want.” She licks at her lip. “I swear.”

A few moments pass, before Fring turns on his heel, announcing, “Get to work, then.”

Fring waves his hand, and Tyrus follows his ascent, casting one final smirk towards Varga. Even quicker than he appeared, Fring leaves with the slam of a door.

A small, feminine voice squeaks, “Mike—”

Fury ignites inside him. “Are you out of your goddamn mind?”

Ava flinches, a response struggling on her swollen lip.

“No, I’m asking,” Mike challenges, unable to stop the venom that drips from his words. “Are you insane? Or just stupid?”

Varga tries to intervene. “Hey, Mike—”

The old man ignores him. “Do you have _any_ idea what’s at stake here?”

“You think I _don’t?”_ she retorts quietly. “You think it hasn't been drilled into my head at this point? About what happens if Lalo—“

“It’s not just about _you,_ kid. I’m talking about me. Or Victor. Or Tyrus. All the people that _you’re risking_ if you don’t get your head out of your ass.”

She shrugs. “We seem to be doing just fine so far.”

Enraged at her arrogance, Mike takes a step forward. “What about next time, hm? Next time you decide that your little revenge fantasy is more important than everyone else around you?” He jabs at the thing in her hand. “When a little magic ‘fix all’ doesn’t show up?”

“We got away—” 

“—You got _lucky._ ” Mike gets in her face. “Do you know what your little excursion jeopardized? What’s been done, what has to be done, to get here? Hell, do you think this lab just magically appeared? Money. Time.” The image of Werner flashes in his mind. “Blood, kid. _Blood_. Do you understand any of that? Did you even stop to think for one second about what you do can affect everything?”

His words are cutting deep, but she’s keeping her emotions at bay. Ava responds sincerely. “I’m sorry, Mike. It was a mistake, but—”

He growls, “You call _this_ a mistake?”

A small, plastic bag appears from his coat pocket, with a few meager and broken orange pills. Ava’s eyes grow wide, then her ears burn red. “That’s not—”

“Yours? Seriously, you’re gonna pull that?”

The girl’s at a loss for words. She casts her eyes down in shame.

“‘Mistakes’—” Mike waves the bag “—don’t get to happen. Not in this business. In this business, mistakes get you killed. They get people you care about killed. You fuck up, you hesitate, even slightly, you don’t get to control the outcome.”

She blinks against the wetness building in her lashes. 

“And if _you_ mess up. If _you_ hesitate—”

“What?” she challenges. “You’ll have to kill me? Like Werner?”

In an instant, his boiling blood freezes over, quelling the rage and catching his voice. How could she know that name? And say it out loud so quickly? Plainly. Almost as a joke. An absurd notion that no sane person would ever formulate. 

But as she sees his face, her expression turns to confusion. 

“Would you?” 

The instinctual response is no. A spark of humanity from the small sliver within him that’s still autonomous. His tongue goes to form it, his vocal chords prepare to vibrate, but Fring’s promise halts it. Loud and prominent. Louder than anything else inside him. 

Kaylee. All this has been for Kaylee; the fragment of his son that still exists, still lives and breathes and swims in a sea of innocence. That smiles the same way he did. That talks nonsense and wisdom, that dreams and hopes. Every cent given to him by Fring is for Kaylee. Every task, every errand, every order by Fring, he does for Kaylee. 

Any disobedience, any insubordination, and it all just stops. Hell, Kaylee could lose her grandfather, too. 

Who’s to say he wouldn’t, if given the ultimatum? Ava or Kaylee, he knows who he’d choose, and this freezes him. Every muscle working to conceal any emotion or feeling. 

At his hesitation, Ava recoils from him. Her face loses color.

“... Mike?”

He takes a tight, unsatisfying breath. “It’s… It’s not that simple, kid.”

“What the fuck does that mean?”

The facade, the arrogance, the fire, has been completely obliterated. Mike only sees a child. A frightened, helpless, battered little girl. He hesitated. It’s done. No lie or truth can fix what just broke inside her. She’s not even trying to hold it back. The dam has burst in her eyes, and they start to glisten. 

With Varga as an audience, Mike steps towards Ava. She flinches, like he’s going to hit her. It only stabs Mike’s heart even more. 

“You need to understand.” Emotion is threatening to overtake his voice, but he only allows anger. Anger pushes him through. “I have people who depend on me. Everything I do, every drop, every drive, every person I put in the ground, is for them. It can’t be for nothing. I won’t let it be for nothing.” It takes all his strength to finish. “No matter who or what gets in the way.” 

The first tear falls down her cheek, mingling with the wet hair that clings to her neck.

“You can stay here, go on some suicide mission. You can go to Houston and live to see next week. Hell, you can call Goodman and run away to Canada for all I care. But you and I are done.”

With that, Mike climbs the stairway, keeping a quick pace until the door closes behind him. 

***

The call had come at a strange time. 

It wasn’t too late. Not late enough to warrant worry, but not early enough to feel casual. A strange time of day, where Mike didn’t know whether or not to be anxious or pleased that his son had called him. Matt had been quiet, hadn’t spoken to Mike since the anniversary dinner. It was odd to commemorate such an event, but the two of them didn’t know any other way, other than to sit together and eat and drink and talk about anything other than _it._

Matty’s idea. Mike had waited for the sting to leave, but losing the only woman you’d ever love to cancer, after she had chosen to leave you, was a wound that would never heal. He had supposed Matt needed space. Three years is a long time, but also hadn’t felt like it at all. And with Kaylee starting kindergarten, Mike had allowed the space to settle. 

A phone call from his son, at this time of night, shouldn’t have felt unusual. But, for some reason, a sense of unease trickled down into Mike’s stomach as he lifted the phone from the receiver. 

His greeting was casual. Tired. Recited. Mike was afraid his confusion would come off as irritation. “Hey, kiddo.”

It was met with something frantic. Matty’s voice was strained, slightly pitched higher, the way it did when he was upset. Words spilled out of him quickly and softly, like he was trying to speak under his breath. Nothing Mike could understand or recognize as complete sentences.

“Woah, woah.” Mike’s hand went up, despite being alone. “Slow down, son. Slow down.”

There was a sigh over the line. 

“What’s wrong?” Mike braced himself against the wall. “Is it Kaylee?”

“No, no, no, Dad. Kaylee’s fine. Stace is fine. We—We’re all fine.”

Mike exhaled in relief. “Jesus, Matty. You almost gave me a heart attack.”

“Sorry.” Matty’s voice sounded ten years younger. “Dad, something happened today. At work.”

The old man’s legs went numb. “What happened?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Mike loses Ava the same way he lost Matty, by disappointing them.


	29. Bloodlines

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> De una chica yo estoy enamorado, (I'm in love with a girl)  
> Pero nunca le he hablado por temor (But I've never talked to her, out of fear)  
> Tengo miedo que ella me rechaze (I'm afraid that she'll reject me)  
> O que diga que ya tiene otro amor (Or that she'll she already has another love)
> 
> "No Se Ha Dado Cuenta" by Roberto Jordan

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> With Lalo's dialogue, I wrote it the way my coworkers speak Spanish. They know a lot of English and speak very well, but they'll say simple words -- like 'but', 'and', 'like', etc. -- in Spanish. Also, his dog is named El Chente, which is the nickname for Vincente Hernandez, one of the most famous singers from Mexico.
> 
> Novio - boyfriend.

The mountain peaks chew the sun as it sinks further and further, bathing the feathery clouds in bloody oranges and visceral yellows. Ava’s unsure if it’s the same day, or a few later. How long had she been down there? Hiding in the lab, like a rat in a sewer. It felt like years. Years of waiting. Talking and sitting in silence. Breathing artificially filtered air and hearing a mechanical hum. Now the winter chill moves through her lungs, staring at the sliver of moon emerging from the east. 

Across the lot, Varga crunches the gravel as he paces back and forth, opening and closing his hands. The swelling on his face has gone down, but it’s a few shades paler. 

True to his word, the old man is gone. A small part of her thought he’d say goodbye. Maybe tell her it wasn’t true. That he didn’t mean it, but even if he did, she wouldn’t believe him. She saw it in his eyes. Keep her alive today or put her down tomorrow, Mike would do it. No different than a box of fentanyl or a bag of money. Disposable. _Replaceable_ . _A burden._

_He never gave a shit about you._

Ava scratches at the back of her neck. The voice is louder now.

_But now you know. Nothing left to lose._

It’s right. Ava’s thankful. Now she has nothing to get in the way. Nothing left to lose except her life. And what’s that really worth?

The door opens next to her. Ava snaps her head, but is disappointed to see it’s only Victor. He joins her against the wall that reeks of cigarettes and chew, tucking his hands into his pockets. He’d drawn the short straw, apparently. Seeing as the _burden_ was in need of a new handler.

“Gus wanted me to make sure you understand.”

The only acknowledgement to him is a small flick of her eyes. 

“Once this starts, you’re on your own. Any communication or help from us risks blowing this whole thing. Me, Tyrus, the old man, we won’t intervene. It’s just gonna be you.” He tilts his head to force her gaze. “Got it?”

Varga had already warned her. There won’t be any communication in the Salamanca den. No way to call for help, and any assistance given would be futile. A bullet would be in her head at the first sign of treachery. Ava understands and gives him a calm nod, but her pulse quickens. 

Victor returns the gesture, but steps closer, dropping his voice to a whisper. “If things go south, don’t trust Varga to help you. Between him and you, he’ll save his own skin. You’d be smart to do the same.”

Over Victor’s shoulder, Varga leans against the black Camry. A tired gaze is pointed directly at the ground. They’ve only known each other for one day, but he’s already stuck his neck out for her more than most. Hell, more than Victor has. But he has a lot to lose. If it comes down to her or his father, Ava knows which one he’ll choose. No hesitation.

She’s completely alone.

Victor echoes her thoughts. “It’s just you. Until Lalo and Amarante are dead.”

“Then Houston.” Gus said so, though Ava doesn’t know exactly what’s waiting for her there. But she doesn’t care. As long as Vaas is dead by then.

“... Yeah. Then Houston.”

Ava nods again. Satisfied, Victor offers her a hand to shake. A strange gesture. Ava can’t remember any occasion where she shook someone’s hand. Only businessmen and church people do that. She takes it anyway, feeling wooden as she moves her arm up and down.

“See you when it’s over, I guess,” Ava tells him. 

Something dark washes over Victor’s eyes. His lips turn into a line. 

Ava strolls across the lot to Varga, looking more worn down than the night before. His eyes stare towards the gaping, dark maw of the trunk. Rope and a bag sit against the cheap velvet interior. The thudding of her heart grows.

“You ready?” he asks.

“Just get it over with.”

Ava offers her wrists to Varga. The rope snakes around them, and he pulls tightly. Almost too tight. The ropes pinch her skin. 

_“Ow.”_

Wrists bound, he nudges at her to sit down. Ava takes a seat on the rim of the trunk, and Varga kneels at her ankles. As soon as she feels his hand touch her skin, she recoils and almost falls into the trunk.

“Hold still.”

“Is that really—?”

Varga doesn’t even look up. “Gotta make it look real.”

She shuts her eyes. Varga’s touch is rough. Much more impersonal, which makes it easier to block out the image of the handsome man with dark eyes. Once her ankles are tied, he stands up immediately. Giving her one final, solemn look before putting the bag on her head.

The ride’s not a pleasant one. Anytime Ava wasn’t at the Villa with Vaas, she was crammed into some small, musty space, either in a car or a truck. She’d never been claustrophobic before, but now, she’s having a hard time keeping her breathing leveled. And Varga’s doing her no favors, hitting every pothole and grate in Albuquerque. Ava’s being tossed around so violently, she thinks it’s payback for the ear.

Finally, the vehicle slows, taking an easy turn into much smoother terrain.

After the car stops completely, Ava hears voices. Quick, rapid, speaking over one another. Varga’s is among the chatter, which offers a little comfort. He’s explaining something. Weaving the story they concocted and rehearsed in those hours alone in the lab. Varga takes a snide comment about his state, but he’s convincing. Ava should’ve known after this much time as Gus’s rat, he’d be a good liar. 

The conversation shifts, moving closer to the trunk of the car. Ava readies herself, already feeling adrenaline spiking inside her. 

Then, dry, hot air floods through.

Fighting is futile. There’s at least three sets of voices around her, but they’re expecting a fight. Desperation from a trapped, panicked little girl. Like Varga said. Gotta make it look convincing. So, as soon as she sees light through the back, Ava erupts into a fit of screams. Thrashing in the trunk at the hands that attempt to grab her, like a fish dropped on a pier. Soon, it’s not an act anymore. Hands grope and hit and squeeze places she doesn’t want touched. She flops out of the trunk, onto the ground. Gravel scrapes at her forearms.

Finally, someone manages to drape her over their shoulder, like an animal carcass. One that’s still kicking.

 _“Get off me!”_ she screeches, surprised at how real it sounds. 

“Shut the fuck up.”

Varga’s threat is tired. The bag falls slightly, and she’s staring at his bloodstained shirt as he walks her across the gravel. She still writhes, but more halfheartedly.

The ground beneath her becomes smooth concrete, the light artificial and harsh. Humming and mechanical sounds fill her ears, along with the chatter. Rapid Spanish and indistinguishable street English, whooping and growling and circling around Varga like vultures as he takes her through room after room. The only indication being a step over a doorway or a slight change in the lighting. Sleepless and starved, she exhausts herself and quits thrashing, resorting to only spitting curses. Every colorful word or phrase she’s ever heard, English or Spanish, is thrown at them. 

The light changes again, along with the air. It’s moist and dank, thick with the scent of motor oil and something else that Varga’s heavy steps walk through. Dark brown, but still stinking. Varga drops her to the ground, directly on top of the stain. The smell manages to leak into the bag, and her nostrils fill with rot. Ava tries to crawl away, playing the part somewhat convincingly, before they rip her from the cement and shove her into a chair. 

The removal of the bag is like a vacuum, ejecting her strength and venom. Suddenly, she can’t speak or breathe, surrounded by chains and racks and the thick, thick smell of decay. Flies have already gathered, trying to drink from her forehead. The room doing it’s damndest to look like a garage, but the smell… It brings to mind a slaughterhouse. Hot and dank, choking on the smell of petroleum and rotting flesh, and trapped in the tractorbeam stare of Lalo Salamanca.

***

Nena wasn’t sure what woke her up, or if she was ever really asleep to begin with. She had no memory of what happened after the belt had been wrapped around her arm, when the coldness spread through her and the bedroom started to sink away. Just images and sounds, and feelings, enough to piece together what had occurred. Enough to make her chest tight, her breath quicken and her body shake. Enough to make her very skin feel disgusting, to want to peel it off, rip herself apart... 

Raul’s face, his touch, his _voice..._

The way it _felt..._

Maybe it was all just dreams. Nightmares. A confusing, horrific nightmare...

In the back of her mind, she knew that’s a lie. What happened _happened_. But if she stopped saying the lies in her head, the feelings overtook her. She wouldn’t let it. She couldn’t.

The bed was cold. No one breathed but her. She was alone now. Alone in a bed, a luxury she hadn’t experienced in… What? Months? Years? She didn’t know. Nena nestled her trembling body deep under the covers in a silky cocoon, twisting and tightening them until she couldn’t move. Until she felt as safe as possible.

Outside the window, the clouds were on fire. It would be morning soon, but for now, she was alone.

The door opened when the flames in the sky had died, pulling her from half sleep. It was still early morning, so Nena held still, pretending to still be unconscious. Steady breathing, no movement. Maybe Raul was just checking on her. If he thinks she’s asleep, he’ll leave her alone. 

“...Nena?”

Someone nudged her shoulder through the blankets.

“Nena, wake up.”

Tears of relief forced her eyes open. Nena flipped towards him, curling into Vaas’ stomach and being gagged by the stench of sweat and blood. Her trembling arms wrapped around his waist, and Vaas immediately through his hands up in confusion. This creature, who had done nothing but spit and fight and wish him harm, was now clinging to him like he was the only stable force on Earth. It was strange for both of them. 

“What are you doing?”

He’d abandoned her. Not neglected, leaving her down in the hole, but _abandoned_ her. For days, he’d been gone. Nena thought she would enjoy that more than anything, but no. All she felt was afraid without him. Vulnerable. Lost. 

“Don’t leave me.” Her voice wavered, too exhausted to cry. Too disgusted to tell him what happened. Too afraid of what he might do. If he’d blame her, or not believe her. And even she wasn’t sure if it was real. All she felt was ill, and his presence there made it better. “Don’t ever leave me again. Please.”

A hesitant hand patted her head. “... You understand.”

Nena nodded her head against his side. “I do. I understand.”

“Your place is here,” he recites.   
  


She nods again. “My place is here. My place is with you. You’re my family.”

As she pulled away, she felt a wetness on her cheek. A dark stain glistened on his abdomen in the pale morning light. “…You’re bleeding.”

A bright, boyish smile grew on his face. “I brought you something, _mija._ A present. You’re gonna love it.” His thumb caressed her lips. “Later, though.”

“You’re bleeding,” she repeated, more strongly.

“Don’t worry. It’s not mine,” he said simply.

The safety and comfort she felt switched off. Nena drew back, trying to disappear into the headboard. Vaas was unimpeded. Calloused fingers traced down her jawline, almost curiously. Nena felt the power behind them, like Vaas didn’t know whether to stroke her chin or rip it off. He settled on the former.

“Go back to sleep, _mi alma._ ”

Nena settled stiffly into the bed, but her companion didn’t join her. He rarely did. Through the window, a sound carried on the wind. It sounded far away, but Nena knew it was coming from somewhere deep on the property. A sound she’d heard before, similar to a wounded coyote. Wailing to the sky for help that won’t come. Deep down she knew it was very, very real. 

The ghost sang her to sleep.

***

It’s surreal how strong the resemblance is. Tall and trim. Streaks of gray so prominent in his black hair, she’d think it was intentional. Wrinkles map the corners of his lips and eyes. Canyons formed from a lifetime of smiling. 

He gives her one as her gaze locks on him. The creases are more pronounced than she remembers. More years on the skin. _Much_ more than he ever got to have. The hairs on the back of her neck stand up. Memories threatening to overtake her. Memories of darkness and a slick, slime coated tool being forced into her hands. 

She’d never known the name.

 _“Hola,”_ Lalo chimes, forcing her out of her head.

Her eyes desperately search for Varga, for the comfort his presence provides, but he’s nowhere to be found among the various shades and shapes surrounding Lalo. 

Greedy, thickheaded rats, as Vaas called them. **_“_** _Anyone not of the Salamanca blood would sell their own mother for a decent car and a piece of ass.”_ So bulked up on muscle and speed that it’s nearly impossible to find a full brain between them. Lalo’s henchmen eye her with vacant, plastic gazes. Sharks in bloodied waters. Three in total, with tight shirts and big knuckles, perfect for snapping someone small and feminine in two. 

Lalo asks, “Where was she?”

“I was checking the drop in the canals.”

Varga. He appears next to her, giving her shoulder a convincing shove as he passes to join the others. 

“Just making sure _Rosa Negra_ hadn’t gotten to them. They’re the ones furthest out of the territory. Easy targets.” Varga looks over his shoulder, back at Ava. “Guess it’s a good thing I did.”

Not the best they could’ve come up with, but Varga was adamant. He knew if Ava came willingly, Lalo would suspect something. Even now, the story seems shifty. Lalo’s eyes leave Ava, staring at Varga’s face. 

Varga shrugs. “Bitch jumped me at my car. Had sawed off. Not enough shots, though. Right, sweetheart?”

Ava squirms in the chair, as expected. The shadows behind Lalo swallow Varga’s face.

“You wasted all this time for a junkie?” pipes one of the cronies. Some peacock looking man, with bright red hair shaved at the sides.

_“Ella es no una yonqui.”_

Ava’s head snaps towards that voice and gets a good look at the clones.

The Twins. _Los Primos_ . There’s a dozen names for them among the Cartels. Horror stories, like _la llorona_ or _el chupacabra_ . No other _sicario_ has their success rate, not even anyone in _Rosa Negra._ And no one ever sees them unless they're on the hunt. Ava’s slightly unnerved when one moves without the other, taking a step closer towards Lalo. Killing machines wrapped in silk suits. Dead, marble eyes with nothing behind them. 

Not Lalo. There’s intelligence in his narrowed eyes, and Ava’s skinless in their gaze. He studies her from his own chair, the smile relaxing with each passing second. Every sound, every micromotion she makes is noted. Interpreted. Filed away, while his men wait hungrily. Wanting bloodshed and violence to be ordered. Varga steps up closer, the lieutenant knowing to stay near the commander.

Lalo says nothing. He just stares, like a child watching an insect through a magnifying glass. Waiting for the heat to make it explode. The hum of machinery vibrates through the walls and floors. Vents expand and contract. 

Finally, the smile beams through his creased face. “ _No manches!”_

The chair beneath Ava squeaks as she jolts upright.

The boss declares, “I know you.”

Veins tighten on Varga’s forearms, and he crosses them on his chest. The other goons are confused, exchanging slow glances across the brightly lit room. 

Lalo leans down on his knees, smiling widely. “You’re Vaas’ bitch.”

Her body goes rigid with genuine anger. 

Lalo turns to the Twins, pointing at the prisoner with a giggle. _“Ella es la putita de Vaas.”_

Neither find this amusing. 

Varga chimes, “I thought so.”

Ava searches the faces of the others, only seeing recognition for the name. All stay quiet. Lalo chuckles to himself as he pulls his chair closer. Like dragging a blade across concrete. Ava forces herself to remain still and not recoil. 

“Wow, wow, wow.” When he takes a seat, his knees are nearly touching hers. He takes in the sight of her, more content and pleased. _“Mucho gusto, mamita._ I mean it. _El hombre_ may be _loco,_ but he has good taste _en las señoritas_.” He laughs, tossing his voice backwards, “Ey, Nacho?”

Behind him, Varga shrugs. “ _Ella culo es muy pequeño.”_

Lalo cackles like a child. Ava shoots a quick glare towards Varga, who twitches his shoulders. 

With a satisfied sigh, Lalo gestures to one of the Twins. _“Marco, desatenla._ No way to treat a lady.”

Even if Ava paid attention, she still couldn’t distinguish the twin who approaches her from the other who stays behind. A knife blade flashes near her face. In a single stroke, her hands are freed. She massages the red skin as Marco cuts her ankles loose.

 _“Bueno,”_ Lalo announces. _“Te vas. Todos.”_

The grunts exchange confused looks. 

“I won’t ask again.” 

His tone doesn’t show any signs of a threat, but the men don’t hesitate. One by one, they file out of the room. Varga follows behind the Twins, keeping his brown eyes on her, until the door shuts behind him.  
“There.” The rusty metal creaks as Lalo eases back into his chair. _“Eso es mejor. Si?”_

Ava’s heart has settled in her throat.

“Sorry for that. My friends came expecting fun. _Son como perros._ Offer them meat and don’t give it to them, they whine. Especially my cousins.” 

Silence settles as he looks her up and down.

“I hope Varga wasn’t too rough on you. Unfortunate that _he_ found you. But something tells me the misfortune was his.” He grins deviously. “You’re very lucky, _mamita._ Any other person and you’d have pins under your nails by now.”

The voice in her head has returned, whispering, _Tell him what happens. What I’ll do, if he touches you._

Ava blinks it away.

Lalo pats his knees. “Where are my manners? _Soy Lalo._ We never met, _pero_ _tenemos_ … Let’s just say a mutual friend. One I admire greatly.”

A snort forms in her throat, but she holds it back, keeping an air of fear and deviance. Calling his feelings for Vaas admiration is strange, though by the looks in his eyes, Lalo means it. Admiration and murderous lust must be synonymous with the Salamancas. 

“Bad news is,” Lalo continues, “there seems to be some kind of disagreement between him and me.” His eyes force her gaze. “I guess I’m not the only one. Are you two having relationship troubles?”

Again, rage consumes her. _“Fuck you.”_

“Ah, come on, _mamita._ ” The lines on his cheeks deepen as he cocks his head to the side. “Is that really how you want this to go?”

The dried, brown stain on the floor catches her eye. “Why don’t you just let your _dogs_ come back in here? Get whatever you think I know out of me. You promised them a good time, right?”

Amused, he says, “I don’t think that would work on you.”

The response takes her aback. 

Lalo leans closer, his voice growing soft. _“Mira, mija._ This business.... Well, for me, it’s the family business. _Mi tío y mi papa,_ they taught me everything I know. Me and my brother, it was all we had. No school. Just the business.”

 _You’d be surprised,_ she almost says. 

_“Mi primos, Marco_ _y Leonel y Tuco,_ they were raised in it,” he continues. “For me, it wasn’t always that way. When I was younger, before the business had really started, we lived on a farm. Cows, chickens, and eventually _jerba._ ” That last one he adds with a wink. “Humble beginnings, you see.

“It wasn’t always easy. We barely made enough money for clothes, let alone toys or television, like American kids had. And it was so fragile. We always lived in fear, not just from the gangs. One time, a den of coyotes decided to nest by our home. They kept crawling under the fence—” he drums his fingers across his thigh in a crawling motion “—and getting the chickens. Took dozens of them. So, _mi mama_ suggested we get a guard dog.”

Her brow creases, but the smoothness of his voice has managed to bring her heart rate down. 

“Big, black dog with pointy ears. _Mi padres_ never cared for the thing, _pero yo,_ I loved that dog. Me and my brother named it _El Chente._ ” He chuckles to himself. “By the time we realized it was a girl, the name had stuck. But it worked. _El Chente_ took three coyotes before they stopped coming. Everything was great.”

He falls silent for a moment. The humming and creaking of the vents echoes around them. 

“But when we were older, _El Chente’s_ mood changed. She started barking and snarling and snapping at everyone. Me and Felix were afraid to go near her. Then, the chickens got attacked again, but this time it wasn’t coyotes.”

Ava shifts in her chair. The word _rabies_ immediately comes to her mind. 

_“Mi papa_ , he knew what was wrong. He told me and Felix to tie her up. _El Chente_ nearly bit Felix’s arm off, but thankfully didn’t leave a scratch. We tied her up, and _papa_ told us to take care of her. So I go to get the gun, but _mi_ _papa_ grabs my arm. ‘What are you doing?’ he says. ‘ _Papa,_ I want it to be fast’.And then, he says, to his son, ‘This animal, that you loved, that you cared for, nearly killed your little brother. And you want to be merciful?’” 

Lalo’s face grows darker. Older. 

“So, I get the machete instead,” he says simply. 

Ava’s hands feel clammy. She looks back down at the stain on the ground.

“Once it was over, _mi_ _papa_ put his arm around my shoulder, and said ‘Now you are stronger.’” The smile returns to Lalo’s face. Weaker, but still bright. “My father was not cruel. Not like _mi tio._ He was a wise man. He knew that his sons needed to learn certain lessons.”

“You have a point?” Ava snips, nerves getting the better of her.

“ _La familia es todo._ My father would do anything for family. He would spit in the face of God for his sons. For his family. That is what he taught me. _Nada es más importante._ I would do anything—I’d _kill_ , and I _have_ , for my family.” Lalo’s eyes narrow as his grin loosens. “Even start a war.”

With those last words, everything ceases. The vents have stopped crackling. The walls no longer vibrate with the hum of distant machines. The mustachioed man observes her again, peeling her skin off with his eyes. Vaas always said Lalo was smart, and here he is. Trying to learn about the world around him, find the ins and outs and the way the wheels turn, instead of just shooting or stabbing to solve his problems. And he’s working it out. Reaching a conclusion that cuts through her ears like razor blades. 

“You must be very special. Like family... Or maybe even something more.”

Ava laughs, shrill and short. “You’re not serious.”

Raul had said something similar once, and it sounded just as ridiculous then as it does now. The idea that the man who made her life a living Hell, did so out of… What? _Love?_ Ava whips her head back and forth. “No,” is all she can say.

Lalo smirks, taking great amusement at her state.

“You—you think that asshole’s doing all this because he’s in _love_ with me?”

Lalo shrugs. “Men in this business — _smart_ men, which your _novio_ is smart — don’t sample their own products. And they don’t keep them around, for what, how many years?”

“Because he’s _sick_. Because he thought it was _funny_ —”

“He cares about you.”

It’s absurd. Maybe Vaas tried to make her think that, once... And maybe at one time, she believed it. But it was all lies. Manipulation. He doesn’t actually feel anything for her. He can’t physically feel.

“No, he—he doesn’t. He can’t—”

“—That’s why he’s in my city, right? It’s not for territory or show of strength. _Es por ti.”_

Ava shakes her head again. “I’m a _threat_. That’s why. I know too much.”

“You’re only a threat if you go to the police. But you won’t.”

The statement catches her off guard. _You won’t._ He doesn’t mean she won’t have the chance. That’s not what his eyes are saying. It’s the same thing Gustavo Fring said, all the way back in the square, next to the water fountain. _You won’t go to the police because you don’t want to._

“He must’ve taught you well, if you survived this long without them. It’s impressive.” Lalo leans closer to her. Ava can smell the spice on his breath. “Did he teach you how to shoot? How to fight? Hide? How to steal money? Find it where it is?”

The look on his face makes her mouth go dry. 

He adds, more softly, “How to cut someone up—?”

“Stop it.”

Lalo persists, muttering in her ear. “I know he tortured you. Over and over again. Until you’d do anything to make it stop.” He considers, “Or maybe, until it didn’t hurt anymore. Maybe you started liking it.”

Horrified tears well up in her eyes. “Shut the fuck up.”

“I know he let his friends fuck you.” She can practically hear the smile he’s wearing. “Over and over and over again, until you could fight them off. Until you were stronger—”

She can’t play the part anymore. Ava jerks her head, trying to slam her skull into Lalo’s mouth. Shut him up. Get him to stop.

He’s already moved, seizing her face by the jaw, and the chair beneath him topples to the floor. He’s standing above her, dull nails digging into her cheek as she pants through clenched teeth.

“Why are you here?” His face is blank, but his voice is the same. 

Ava’s heart drops into her stomach. “I don’t know what you’re—”

He grips her harder. “You expect me to believe you found my money by accident? That the new heir to _Rosa Negra_ was just crawling around this _ciudad puto_ for no reason other than coincidence? I know Vaas didn’t teach you to be stupid.” He gets an inch from her face. “You wouldn’t attack Varga, let him take you, unless you wanted it.”

It’s hard to speak like this, but she gasps, “Vaas always said you were the smart one.”

 _“El hizo?”_ Lalo challenges.

She nods stiffly.

_“Que queries?”_

“Your war,” Ava mumbles, “I can help you.”

 ****Lalo clicks his tongue and let’s her go. “Ah, predictable.”

 ****“You said it yourself.” She massaged her jaw, feeling a bruise coming in. “He taught me everything he knows, and I know him better than anyone.”

“And I’m supposed to believe _los_ _cabrones_ in Medellin and Bogota will just stop?” he chuckles. “I told you, _mamita_ , I know the business. I know how these men work. Think.”

”Hasn’t stopped you so far.”

He looks slightly annoyed, so she quickly goes on.

“The whole operation is fractured. Half of Rosa Negra want him dead, half will die for him. Medellin worships the ground he walks on, but Bogota? Tijuana? Different story. Only put up with him because of his dad. And his stranglehold on the smuggling routes. He’s gone, they’ll move on. Trust me.” 

Intrigued, Lalo pulls his chair back up and sits. “And his fanatics?”

Ava guesses, “They’ll be taken care of. Without him, it’ll be like squashing ants.” Now it’s her turn to smile. “Face it, Lalo. You _need_ me. Before Daddy Bolsa and Don Eladio ruin all your fun. They come here, see me with you, they’ll just make you strike a deal. You don’t want that. You want the same thing I do.”

There’s a flash in his eyes at the mention of them, but her smile doesn’t waver. 

“You want him dead,” she says.

Lalo leans forward again, looking deep into her eyes, picking his next words carefully. “I want him awake long enough to feel every piece of his body pulled apart. I want him to know what his intestines taste like.”

Her blood runs cold, but she smiles. “Good.”

Lalo’s eyes narrow again. “And what do you want? Really?”

Ava says, “Just him gone.” _So he can never hurt anyone again._ “After that, doesn’t matter to me what happens. Kill me, let me go, I don’t care.” 

After a few moments of silence, Lalo beams at her. The cold, threatening demeanor is switched off. Gone so quickly, Ava gets whiplash. A laugh shakes his chest, and he stands up, pulling her with him. 

_“Orale, mamita!”_ he exclaims.

Then, Lalo hugs her.

Ava nearly yelps in terror, feeling the older man’s strength envelop her, squeeze the air from her chest, and ruffle her hair, before letting her go.

“Let’s introduce you to the boys. All this business talk made me hungry.” He speaks quickly and energetically, like a salesman. “I’ll get you something to eat. Something to drink. Maybe something to smoke, _lo que más necesitas._ We’ll discuss more later.”

Lalo tugs her by the waist out of the room, leading her back through the same sounds and smells as before, but turning abruptly into some larger space. A car sits in the middle, gleaming red and shining. Varga’s there, surprised at the change in Lalo’s demeanor. 

_“Muchachos, eso es… Uh, dime, mija. Cómo te llamas?”_

She looks out at the confused, dense looking expressions, and smiles. 

“Call me Ava,” she says. 

Her eyes land on one man, and the floor almost disappears beneath her. Memories of the crackhouse, almost getting her eyes gouged out, and looking down from a window at a panicked boy making a run for it. Among the brainless looks, she sees one of recognition and horror from none other than Domingo Molina.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I’m sorry for the last message I left. Winter is a hard time mental health wise, and the pandemic hasn’t helped. I’m also moving to a new apartment and still trying to find a job in the film industry (I wanna be a screenwriter; but at this point I think I have a better chance marrying Michael B Jordan). At some point, writing this story started to feel like a chore and like I had a limited amount of time to update or no one would read it. I’ve mentioned before how this story became so much longer than I planned, and I found myself needing to do it again, which really frustrated me and only made me more insecure. I just really needed to take a break and remind myself why I wrote this in the first place, and that it’s okay if it’s long or if people lose interest because, even though it doesn’t matter, it’s important to finish this story the way I want to tell it. Once I finish my move, I will be finishing it, though I don’t know when the next update is at this point, or how close together they will be. But I promise I will finish it.

**Author's Note:**

> For Tammy and Bek. Thanks for believing in me, even when I don’t deserve it.  
> 


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